


In Need of Representation

by Mayhem21



Series: Representation Universe [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 44,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayhem21/pseuds/Mayhem21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original prompt: What if a nation was never found by another nation as a kid? </p><p>The United States of America has always been an outlier to the rest of the world - the only nation known to exist without a living personification. But as the world's existing personifications come under the threat of a deadly attack, everything is about to change. Representation universe. No slash. Kinkmeme de-anon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author Note: Kinkmeme de-anon. See the end of Chapter 1 for link and additional notes

The small, blond child peered around a tree into the clearing beyond, watching with wide blue eyes as the strangers argued. Their language wasn’t like Mama’s or any of the other people who lived nearby but somehow he just knew he would understand it if he got close. And he wanted to, so very badly. These strangers felt like Mama, tugging at his head, and they even looked like he did when he saw his reflection in the water!

“What are you doing?” a voice hissed behind him. Uh oh.

“Just looking,” he protested as Mama seized his arm and pulled him from his tree. “They look like me,” he declared. “And I can feel them, here,” he added, pointing to his head, “and here.” He pointed to his chest. “Just like I can feel you. Why?” he asked.

“You stay away from them,” Mama insisted, scooping him up into her arms and turning away from the clearing. Her leather moccasins were silent as she broke into a run. “Those strangers carry sickness,” she panted, causing the child in her arms to squirm and huff at the frequently heard warnings. “Everywhere they go, our people fall ill in numbers greater than any sickness that has ever come before. A great many moons have passed, the seasons change again and again, and yet over generations, never have I seen the peoples of this land face so great a threat as these.”

Mama slowed, then stopped to sit on a log, sweating and out of breath.

“They took your brother,” she whispered, cuddling her only remaining son to her chest, “he is far from us and we will not see him again.” Her body shook with weakness. She seized her son’s chin and forced him to look at her. “Promise me,” she pleaded, “promise me that no matter what happens, you will stay away from the strangers. The ones that are here” she touched his head “and here” then his chest.

“I promise, Mama.”

* * *

Alfred tugged his stolen trousers up with a twinge of guilt. He hated having to steal clothes, but he didn’t have any coin at the moment, and a sudden growth spurt had left him bereft of properly fitting garments.

He’d left his old clothes behind, although his old white nightgown was bundled into a knot at the bottom of his pack, too precious a memory to be discarded.

The gown was the first thing he’d been given after Mama and their people had disappeared. Lots of them had gotten sick, and then the others had left. All his childlike mind had known was that Mama must have gotten sick somewhere far away because he couldn’t find her anywhere.

The animals that lived near his home had seen to him, showing him what he could eat and letting him snuggle up close at night when it got cold. It wasn’t until the snow started to fall that one of the strangers had found him.

Mr. Samuel had been very surprised to meet him. He’d gotten upset when he told him that he was looking for Mama and how long she’d been gone and insisted he go home with him. And he remembered promising Mama to stay away from the strangers, but Mr. Samuel wasn’t like the two he’d watched argue in the clearing. He just knew instantly that Mr. Samuel was a nice man with a wife and several happy children.

Mrs. Elizabeth, Mr. Samuel’s wife, had named him Alfred, saying he was like a little elf from the woods. They’d given him the nightdress and let him live with them until he decided he needed to go look for Mama again.

But then everything changed. He was growing too slow. Mrs. Elizabeth didn’t want him to leave, but Mr. Samuel said that he was a changeling and that the neighbors were getting upset, so he needed to go.

“Alfred,” Mr. Samuel had said, taking him aside one day, “no matter what happens, what folks say to you or about you, remember you’re a good boy at heart. You’ve been given very special gifts, and I’ve seen how much you want to help others. You keep that close, and you won’t go astray.”

Then he gave Alfred new clothes (including trousers!), a blanket, food, and his own knife, and told him it was time to leave.

In the years that followed, he’d kept the memory of Mr. Samuel and Mrs. Elizabeth close to his heart. He learned not to stay in any location too long, lest his seemingly ageless existence be called into question.

In the end, he had grown, until he could nearly look any man of the New World in the eye. He'd learned about these people, these Americans, (oh, how that name sang to him). He'd learned to hunt and to farm, turning his hand at whatever task would help those he met as he traveled up and down through the Colonies.

He fiddled with his new garments as he continued down the forest trail. He’d be at the crossroads soon. There were always farmers in need of help . . . and yet he couldn’t help but feel drawn towards Massachusetts. Lexington and Concord were close . . . he could go there for a time. So many of the American colonists were feeling restless of late. Surely he could be of help there . . .


	2. Chapter 2

England roughly shuffled his meeting notes together, heavy brows drawn into a menacing glare, silently daring any of the dawdling nations to make some of the usual jokes and jibes meetings in the United States typically prompted.

The newest American administration representative looked harried as she hurried to complete her notes regarding the final presentation and discussion of the day. They were only on day two of their environmental conference, and she was already falling behind.

England barely suppressed a sneer as he tucked his carefully ordered notes into his briefcase and stalked out of the room.

She wouldn’t last. None of them did, no matter how hard they tried. A Personification didn’t need opinion polls or direction from any political party. They were the people. Their blood pumped to the rhythms of their land, and they knew without prompting every disjointed movement, feeling, and desire that flowed through their borders.

But here? It was galling, a nation as superficial and fragmented as the United States of America becoming a power, let alone a Superpower. There was no shared culture or core identity. Nothing to create a living personification.

America was both fascinating and terrifying. A sanctuary and a bloody powder keg. 

There wasn’t a personification alive today that didn’t secretly fear that America represented the end of their kind, a fundamental shift in human nature. None of the nations that emerged after it had failed to generate a personification, so it was, for now, an anomaly, albeit a highly concerning one.

America’s lack of representation was a topic rarely discussed in the open by their kind but nearly guaranteed to come up once the alcohol started flowing. Russia, as the Soviet Union, had decried America a soulless black hole, always consuming and destroying but never creating. Its lack of proper representation, he claimed, proved the inherent flaws of capitalist systems.

The more philosophical of their kind waxed poetic about ever-shifting cultural values and lack of official authorities on matters such as language and naming customs, suggesting that the existence of a representative for such a country couldn’t possibly exist.

He had to put up with being the first nation to be defeated solely by humans. Fucking France. They wouldn’t have managed it without him. He’d used the humans as a puppet to break him. Served him right, the whole thing turning around on him a few years later back home. 

England paused his mental ruminations, a twinge of guilt sliding through him. Best not to bring that up. That revolution had been especially hard on his neighbor.

Still, he considered, stepping onto the elevator to head up to his room. It didn’t matter that the United States had shaken the world to its core at the end of World War II and terrified every living personification with its might. He’d been the first to lose and no matter how large he’d built his Empire, he had never lived that down.

He rubbed his face, the indicator lights ticking away as he neared his floor. Once he secured his documents, he could head out and find a bar, hopefully avoiding the other nations just waiting to pounce. Pricks. Three more days and he could head home, leaving the god-awful late spring heat of Austin, Texas, behind. Live Music Capitol of the World or not, the bloody heat alone should have prompted the event planners to pick another city for this environmental conference and charity music festival.

Christ, he needed a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred absently bounced along to the music playing in his ears as he walked towards campus, blonde hair glowing in the sun. As usual, his essence was spread out amongst the people around him, effortlessly allowing him to feel every step and decision happening around him, guiding him during his frequent aimless strolls to where he could help someone in need, provide a friendly ear, or brighten a miserable day.

Well, on a normal day, that is. IT was back and larger than usual, a heavy, tempting presence that tugged at him to investigate. Alfred shivered slightly, cranking up his music and opening himself further to his surroundings. The presence soon faded beneath the rich tapestry of emotion and music and language his people had started weaving centuries earlier. 

He hated it when this OTHER appeared. He’d encountered it a few times during the frontier days (albeit smaller and weaker), usually in the form of concentrated attempts to violently murder him and any companions he was traveling with.

Whatever the OTHER was, the joke was on them. He couldn’t die. Well, he couldn’t stay dead. Handy trick to have during an attempted murder.

Blue eyes suddenly flickered towards a busker set up next a busy intersection. He tossed some change into the open instrument case. 

“Try the Dog and Duck pub just before MLK Blvd,” he called out as he passed. “They’re looking for live music and I think you’d be a great fit! Tell Jake Alfred sent you!” The performer looked startled but he could feel her interest. Jake had been dithering on the topic of live music for weeks now. One more tiny push and it’d be a new world for all of them. Change was a wonderful thing.

Change. 

Huh.

He couldn’t even really feel the OTHER anymore. He never did, not once he opened himself up to the melting pot of American culture. Even without its looming presence, a hint of warning lingered, a vague feeling of danger Mama had impressed upon him centuries earlier.

Well, he was a hero, right? He fiddled with the smart phone in his pocket, skipping forward and backwards through the tracks, pondering what to do. He’d rescued, like, three balloons and a cat this week alone. 

That settled it.

Just this once, he’d head towards the OTHER. Maybe he’d finally find out what this thing was.


	4. Chapter 4

After motioning for another drink, England stretched his arms out over the table and returned his attention to the performer tucked in a corner of the patio of the dingy pub he'd discovered a few blocks from the hotel conference center. Fortunately for the performer warbling away at what she seemed to consider "music", the sheer amount of beer he’d consumed kept the island nation in a fairly relaxed mood and disinclined to offer pointed (and loud) commentary on the musical mayhem assaulting the somewhat intoxicated audience.

His drink arrived with a startling thud as it was all but slammed down in front of him. England jerked, one hand instinctively moving to where he often wore a pistol while the other snapped up in a guard position. A few heart-pounding moments later, he realized a moisture slick bottle of beer sat before him as his server? slid onto the opposite bench.

He blinked blearily, then glared. 

“Bloody hell, Matthew,” he grumbled, reaching out for the opened bottle. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Matthew blinked, brow furrowing. Something seemed . . . off about his former colony. Taking a swig, England peered over the green glass, trying to suss out why Canada seemed odd.

“Did you cut your hair?” he asked after some consideration. It hadn’t always been that short, right? “And since when are you eyes that . . . blue-ish? No wonder that bear of yours can never remember who you are if you’re making these sort of . . . cosmetic changes all the time.” His glare returned. “Francis put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Canada didn’t answer right away. He seemed a bit lost . . . -- disconcerted -- with England’s questions as Matthew studied him through the thin lenses of his glasses. Which were blue. Hadn’t those frames been red at the meeting earlier?

“Exactly how much have you had to drink?” Canada finally asked, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward. 

“That’s none of your concern, boy,” England warned, grip tightening on the bottle. He took another swig. “My choice of recreation is none of your business.”

Matthew shifted to lean his head on one hand, tapping his bottom lip with a finger. A faint smile appeared.

“You really think I’m him, this Matthew, don’t you?”

England blinked, then sputtered. 

“Of course you’re Matthew! I changed your diapers when you wore them, I think I can recognize you when you’re sitting less than a meter away from me!”

Matthew blinked, then grinned.

“Sorry! Bad joke,” he apologized.

“Very bad,” agreed England. He glanced down at his drink, realizing it was about half-empty. “You’re acting quite peculiar,” he grumbled. “Perhaps I should be asking you how much you’ve had to drink.”

“So, today was interesting,” Matthew replied after a beat, sidestepping the grumbled comment.

“Hardly.” England glared at his bottle then downed the remaining contents. His (proper) server appeared before he could look up and placed a new drink at his elbow. “This whole conference is ridiculous. The ones making the most pollution don’t give a rat’s arse about reducing that output which makes talking about it pointless. On top of that, we’re only days away from having to endure more of . . . that.” He gestured towards the performer with the empty bottle then slammed it onto the table.

Matthew made a sympathetic noise, which England took as permission to unleash a full volley of complaints about the conference, the upcoming music festival, several of the other attendees, the location, and the weather. The kind, northern nation remained supportive throughout the rant, nodding and agreeing while also ensuring a steady supply of drinks and finger foods to keep him talking.

Several hours -- and conversation topics -- later, England was well and truly drunk.

“Probably time to be getting back,” Matthew commented before draining the last of his soda. “Still have your room key?”

England blinked, fumbling for his wallet. A few moments of digging and he waved the slender plastic key card in Canada’s face.

“Of course I have the bloody key, I’m not Antonio always losing things. Room 309. There.” 

His companion jerked back to avoid the flailing limb and key card. Digging out his own wallet, Alfred dropped enough cash on the table to cover the tab. He stretched as he stood up, raising up on to his tip-toes and stretching his arms over his head, fingertips brushing the tin awning over the patio. After holding this pose for a few moments, he came back down and dropped his arms with a satisfied sound.

“Alrighty, then,” he drawled, swinging a hitherto unnoticed backpack out from under the table and over a shoulder before reaching out for England. He plucked the plastic card the drunk Brit was still clutching and studied it briefly, taking it the name of the hotel emblazoned on one side. “Fancy digs,” he murmured. 

The upset Brit clutched at his arms as he was pulled upright. He liberated the still-waving wallet from clinging hands, opening it briefly to study the contents (driver’s license, credit cards, name was Arthur Kirkland good to know, American cash, British pounds, a few euros), before shoving it deep into his back pocket alongside his own wallet.

“I just want to go home.” Arthur’s voice wobbled. “I hate coming here. Everyone picks on me just because I lost first. It’s always hot outside, the music is terrible, and no one drinks proper.” His mood continued in a quick decline as he was half-carried off the pub patio and down the street.

Alfred looked down at the morose Brit leaning against his side as they navigated the battered sidewalk. He hadn’t had any specific expectations for what the OTHER would be when he found it, but this wasn’t it. Well, perhaps he needed to get Arthur back to the bulk of the foreign presence before he figured out exactly what he was dealing with. The past few hours had been quite illuminating -- a flurry of names, references, and endless complaints. 

He hitched Arthur up a bit as they reached a large intersection, careful to keep a strong grasp on his gravity challenged companion. The hotel and conference center was close. Once he dropped the Brit off, he would start doing some digging.

Perhaps Tony could help.


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred swept a casual glance up and down the hallway as he approached his newly booked room. He'd ended up quite a ways from Kirkland's (as well as most of the other guests, apparently), but a little sweet talking was all it had taken to coax lodgings out of the pretty attendant at the front desk. Satisfied he was alone, Alfred swept his key through the lock and disappeared from the hallway.

He grinned in quiet delight as he took in the room. All burnt orange and brown leather, the room wore it's University of Texas colors with determined elegance and the UT tower could be seen standing proud and tall through the fifth story window.

A quick peek in the closet and bathroom gave Alfred a solid grasp of his new dwelling (and left him squealing with delight inside. He didn't often take advantage of such luxury).

"Right!" he exclaimed, coming to a stop next to the bed. In a single smooth motion, he swung his backpack onto the bed, the zippers letting out a quiet _zrippppp_ as he dug into the many pockets and compartments. He transferred a bulky laptop, power supply, headset, and wireless mouse to the executive style desk and quickly wired up both the power and ethernet cables, slammed two bottles of Coke next to the computer, and settled in for a long night’s work.

It didn’t take long before he was looking at the immobile, red-eyed gaze of his best friend.

“The fuck did you do now?” Tony demanded, looking up from the small gaming device clutched in his spidery hands.

“Crazy story, bro,” Alfred replied. He grabbed his stars’n’stripes clad smartphone and started forwarding the pictures he’d snapped of Arthur Kirkland’s wallet contents. “Remember the stuff I’ve told you about this weird presence I feel every now and then? Well, the time has come to investigate and find out just what’s going on!”

Tony stared at Alfred, radiating a sense of disbelief. The blond merely grinned, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm for the new challenge ahead of them.

“I approached a lone member of the _OTHER_ earlier today. Dude was totally drunk off his ass and thought I was someone else,” Alfred snickered. His grin slipped into a smirk, preening as he began to describe the mini-intelligence operation he’d run on the British man earlier. “I kept the beer and the questions flowing and even got my hands on his wallet.”

A sudden flurry of _whooshing_ sounds heralded the successful departure of the pictures he’d queued up.

“I just sent you pictures of the guy’s wallet contents. Can you see what you can dig up? Dude is like, insanely British. Kept talking policy stuff too, so he’s definitely Government.”

Tony sighed softly and tossed the gaming device out of view.

“Oh, right,” Alfred grinned again, threading his fingers together and popping his knuckles. “There’s a bunch of foreigners staying for the environmental festival. I’m gonna see what the hotel system can tell me about these guys, see if any of them stand out like Mr. Arthur Kirkland.

Moments later, he was typing away at his laptop, focused entirely on penetrating the hotel’s formidable digital security.

Tony considered Alfred a moment longer then minimized the video feed. After several decades of companionship, he’d come to recognize the signs of hyper-focus. Pulling up the files Alfred had sent, Tony studied them, pondering how best to proceed. It was worrying that someone could so thoroughly capture Alfred’s attention.

“Fuckin’ Limey,” the alien muttered then got to work.

* * *

England started, jostled from heavy sleep as the alarm on his phone suddenly blared-

_Don't wanna be an American idiot._  
_Don't want a nation under the new mania_  
 _And can you hear the sound of hysteria?_  
 _The subliminal mind fuck America._

He jerked, groping to silence the noise, repeating a constant mantra of fuckfuckfuck.

Finally, his hands landed on the brightly illuminated, happily singing phone sitting on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. He grappled with it, struggling with clumsy fingers until it finally fell silent.

The silence was almost deafening after the cacophony.

Clutching the Galaxy phone in still-shaking hands, he cast a bewildered, pained, and very confused look around the room.

“Fuck,” he exclaimed again, dropping back amongst the bedding and draping an arm over his eyes. His head was pounding, slowing his thoughts, as he slowly began to reconstruct the events from the night before.

‘I think Canada was there,’ he finally concluded, vaguely remembering a familiar, friendly face. ‘Good lad, must have helped me back.’

Fighting back a wave of nausea, England slowly rolled over, forcing his eyes open once again, looking about with a bleary gaze until he finally spotted the glass of water and small orange pills that had been next to his phone.

“Good lad,” England repeated aloud then winced at the sound of his own voice.

After downing the pills and water, he studied his phone again trying to force his congealed mental processes into action. He needed food, obviously, and a decent cuppa tea. But first…

 _F. Arthur # Sent 7:13 AM_  
Thanks for the help last night. Breakfast?  
sent to: Matthew


	6. Chapter 6

“Either keep up or get out of my way!” Canada snapped, frantically yanking on worn sneakers.

“Easy, Birdie,” Prussia started.

“Don’t _Easy, Birdie_ , me!” Canada gave up on the protesting shoelace and sprang to his feet. “Kumajiro is lost and YOU’RE JUST SITTING THERE!”

“He’s a polar bear, how much trouble can he get into?”

“He’s a baby!” Canada’s eyes teared up a bit. “He’s small and lost, and I don’t trust the people here to take proper care of him! This is Texas, not the Arctic! The closest they have to cold weather animals are dogs with strangely heavy coats!”

With a heavy sigh, Prussia pushed off the bed and crossed over to Canada, seizing his shoulders and gave him a hard shake.

“Okay, _breathe_ ,” Prussia insisted. His red eyes peered sharply at Canada. “Look, Gilbird does this scheisse all the time. He flies off, disappears for days, leaving me to worry; so inconsiderate,” he gave Canada another shake, “but this is the important part, _he always comes_ back.” His hands relaxed and he switched from shaking the panicky northern nation to patting his shoulders. “Awesome men like us do not have weaklings for companions.” He smirked and stepped back slightly, striking a dramatic pose. “No, our companions are warriors, fighters, explorers! I guarantee, once we find Kumajiro, he will have embarked on an epic quest! Even now, I am certain he’s relaxing in a bar and enjoying the spoils of war! How I envy him.”

Canada stared at Prussia, a grudging smile playing at his lips as his pulse began to slow. “Kumajiro doesn’t drink,” he replied, voice calmer than before. “He’s underage.”

Prussia looked horrified. “So he’s sitting in a bar and _not drinking_?” He grabbed Canada’s shoulders again. “Canada, **we must rescue him**.”

Before Canada could reply, his pocket buzzed, his phone vibrating with some kind of alert. Knocking Prussia’s arm away, he dug the device out and looked at the notification floating on the glass screen. He’d gotten a text:

 _F. Arthur # Sent 7:13 AM_  
Thanks for the help last night. Breakfast?  
sent to: Matthew

The Canadian personification stared blankly at the message. What in the world was England talking about? They hadn’t spoken since before yesterday’s meeting ended.

It didn’t matter.

He shifted his phone back to sleep mode with a decisive click and shoved the electronic device back into his pants pocket.

“Time to go,” Canada declared before turning and sweeping out of the room.

Prussia shook his head as he followed, amused by the northern nation’s tizzy. Kumajiro knew how to look after himself, but it was clear Canada would need his awesome self to keep from flying completely off the handle until they found the wayward bear.

* * *

Rubbing his face tiredly, Alfred swiveled his chair towards the nightstand to double-check the time (just past 7:30 in the morning). He grimaced. Pulling an all-nighter right before the festival kicked off may not have been wise, not when he was about to spend all day recording live interviews for the special radio broadcast the Department of Radio-Television-Film had been planning.

Swiveling back to the computer, he reached for his drink as he opened a video call to Tony. As the red-eyed alien appeared, Alfred stared in horror at the empty plastic bottle he’d tried to take a swig from. “Fuck, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he groaned.

He looked up at Tony. “Please tell me you have good news,” he begged.

Tony shrugged. “I got shit. The limey’s high up in the government, but these assholes are fuckin’ paranoid about him. Gunna need to dig more. Better hope the info you want isn’t hardcopy only.”

Alfred stared, his mood dropping like a rock. “Right, well, I got other names if you want to try something different.” He quickly typed the names he'd pulled off the hotel system into an email and sent it to his friend. “I know Public Relations has been hyping this as the World’s Fair for the 21st century, but we’ve almost got a mini-UN security council going on here.” He leaned back, thoughtful as he propped his arms on top of his head. “Run down Matthew Williams first, I think he’s the one Kirkland mistook me for.”

After flashing a brief thumbs-up, Tony closed the chat and disappeared.

Alfred held his pose for a few more moments, idly wondering if the Brit had found the ibuprofen he’d left next to the bed. Or if the front desk would let him know his wallet had been found and turned in. _‘Scuze me, I found this wallet outside. I think it belongs to someone staying here?_ Too easy.

Right.

Festival.

Work.

Alfred rose slowly, feeling stiff joints creak and twinge at the sudden movement. He swept the debris covering the desk into a semblance of order, locked down his laptop, and pocketed his phone, grabbing his charging cord and a wall plug after a moment’s thought.

He staggered over to the room door, grabbing the _Do Not Disturb_ sign and popping the door open to hang it. Glancing at the clock once more before heading out, he decided he had just enough time to stop at the Einstein Bros. on the Drag for a bagel and caffeine while he walked over to the Communications building to start what was surely going to be a long day. With a heavy sigh, he allowed the door to swing shut and made his way towards the elevators.


	7. Chapter 7

"You just wait, I'll soon be the world's Greenest nation and once everyone sees how amazing I am, they'll be begging to recognize me!"

England's fingers tightened on his teacup as Sealand continued to prattle on next to him. Sweden was a canny bastard, insisting that the conference would be an important learning opportunity for the micronation so could he take him along for the event?

He was just using this as an excuse to sweep Finland off to Iceland's hot springs or something.

From his other side, Wy huffed and rolled her eyes.

“As if,” she sniffed. “My country is much further along than your’s -- my prince and his family sell produce as well as art. And I’m not made of concrete.”

England stared blankly ahead as a heated argument started up, the two small micronations leaning towards him to argue (loudly) with each other.

Hutt’s been bugging me about coming to the unveiling of a new commemorative coin. Sweden bul--I mean, asked you to take Sealand to America for that conference, yeah? Want to take Wy along as well? She’s got that one well under her thumb, could be handy to have around.

This was why he hated politics. All the lies.

A sudden flash of color appeared in the corner of his eye. Without turning his head, England tracked Kugelmugel’s tentative approach, hesitant to butt in on the argument between the two strong-minded micronations.

Kugelmugel had tagged along with Germany at Sealand’s invitation. The Italian one and that new one that kept yelling and making rude gestures were sure to turn up soon.

Sealand had apparently decided to hold a “Micronations Take Action on the Environment” conference. So far, their meeting had consisted of adding unnecessary noise to breakfast, watching “environmental movies” such as “The Day After Tomorrow” and “The Core”, and being a general nuisance. Thankfully, it had all mostly been confined to the two rooms the assembled nations had pitched in to get for them (to keep them contained, in all honesty).

England looked down at his tea, trying to decide if there was any way to drown himself.

“Ah, Angleterre, how kind of you to play nursemaid.”

God damn it.

“Go away, France,” England growled, refusing to look at the French nation now leaning on his chair.

“I’ve missed your scowling face, England,” France replied. The chair back creaked slightly as France leaned more weight on the delicate looking wood. “You won’t eat with anyone after meetings, you won’t drink with anyone, and you certainly seem disinterested in having . . . company . . . late into the night.”

England could hear the suggestive look the damned Frog had on his face.

“I suppose it’s understandable,” France continued as though England wasn’t giving his cutlery a considering look. He placed a conciliatory hand on England’s arm. “You’re clearly still pained from your losses on these shores all those years ago. As your neighbor, it is my duty to offer you comfort during such a trying time.”

Sealand and Wy had stopped arguing and the wide-eyed stares from the three assembled micronations were all that stopped him from reaching up to throttle France. He would be smirking now, barely concealing the glee and amusement he still took from England’s loss of the American Colonies centuries earlier.

“Really, France,” he snapped, jerking out from under his neighbor’s hand. “Such discussion is hardly appropriate at breakfast, and is certainly unsuitable for such young ears.” He finally turned his head, meeting France’s eyes and growled, “Remove yourself at once.”

“Before breaking my fast? How ridiculous, England.” France smirked and straightened before circling the table and seating himself at the table. He picked up the breakfast menu and gestured for the waiter while perusing its contents.

Frowning, England picked up his phone where it lay face-down near his plate. Still no reply from Canada.

“Awaiting a call?” France asked as he spotted England’s quiet motion.

“I invited Canada to breakfast but haven’t heard back.” England was growing worried. Canada was scrupulous about responding even if with a refusal.

“Ah, I saw him and Prussia leave earlier.” France leaned back comfortably. “I believe Prussia mentioned something about his pet bear being lost.”

“He’s moving on to losing living beings now?” England asked with a raised brow.

“Hmm, he does take after you somewhat,” was France’s teasing reply. “It will be a true tragedy if he ever reaches your level of, ah, losing things.”

“Shut it,” England growled. He turned his answering glare back to his phone and placed it back on the table. “I hope he remembers we’re supposed to sit for that sodding student interview later.”

France chuckled, barely sparing a glance for the waiter now pouring his coffee. After placing his order and dismissing the waiter, he took a sip and grimaced.

“I don’t understand why they insist on over-roasting the beans,” he muttered under his breath. “In any case,” he continued in a louder voice, looking back at England. “Canada has been especially unenthused with the planned interviews, so I would not be surprised if Kumajiro remains missing for most of the morning.”

“It’s absolutely ridiculous,” England snapped back. “We are not public figures and there is no reason why we should have to pretend to be ordinary human officials just for the sake of public relations. We hire people to do that for us.”

“I do not disagree,” replied France.

“Then why don’t you just tell them you won’t do it?” Sealand suddenly interjected.

England started, having momentarily forgotten the small micronation.

“Because it was the American’s idea and our bosses think that by going along with it, we will think more highly of her,” France replied.

“She has no place here,” England added, looking down at Sealand. He sighed and leaned back, picking up his teacup once more. “It is . . . helpful . . . to have someone to stand for the United States during meeting such as this.” He gave Sealand and then Wy and Kugelmugel a sharp look. “But she is NOT one of us and no mere human can ever replace a nation. She is incapable of comprehending us and by the time she could even begin to understand, she will be removed and replaced with a new political operative.”

“We do this,” France continued, seamlessly picking up England’s thread of conversation, “because it costs us nothing but time. We have that in abundance. It makes the human feel like she is contributing. So for now, we will do this.”

* * *

Across the room, Italy loudly greeted Japan as he followed Germany to the island nation’s table, bubbling with energy despite the early hour. Russia and China arrived moments later, eyes flickering around the room as they seated themselves in a quiet corner. Even Russia’s omnipresent air of malice seemed subdued.

Jennifer tracked their movements, unacknowledged and wholly ignored by the assembled nations, a state she’d been relegated to by the national representatives.

Grimacing into her coffee, the lone human attendee of the conference of nations thought back to her “orientation” at the outset of her new position.

”They don’t like us and they never will,” her predecessor told her. “When it comes to meetings like this, they’re absolutely infuriated that they have to deal with someone who isn’t . . . like them.”

“I was told we’ve been sending our own American representative to these meetings since World War II,” she argued. “Shouldn’t they just get over it already? It’s not like we can magically force a living personification to appear. This situation isn’t our fault!”

“Oh, but to them it is. There’s something wrong with us, there has to be, because if we don’t have a national representative we shouldn’t be able to exist as a community, let alone a country.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Do you think we scare them?” she finally asked.

“Absolutely.”

She’d been told to expect this treatment but actually experiencing it was something altogether different. She’d spent over a decade working in some of the nastiest, cruelest, and most treacherous environments that existed while pursuing a career in the military, studying law and finance, and building on her natural flair for languages.

It all paled in the face of the hostility, contempt, and outright hatred she’d been forced to endure over the last few days.

Well, she was getting a little bit of her own back. Jennifer finished her coffee with a barely suppressed smirk. It was going to be delightful watching these nations pretend to be cheerful, civil, and wholly unimportant once they got to the radio station.

* * *

“Welcome to ‘Voices From Abroad’, I’m Patricia Barclay.”

Alfred kept his head down and his ballcap lowered as Patty leaned in to her microphone. To anyone else, it would appear he was fiddling with the sound board on his side of the glass barrier.

In truth, he was hiding.

Everything was FUBAR -- fucked up beyond all recognition.

There had been a plan. Tony digging for digital secrets while Alfred isolated the targets and subtly pumped them for information. Fall back, review, and proceed as needed.

Having ALL his targets appear en masse while he was at work? NOT part of the plan! Shuddering at the memory of the sudden foreign presence that had inundated him so suddenly, Alfred reached out again for the comforting blanket of American spirits and energy, mentally drawing it closer.

After fiddling a bit more with the audio equipment, he peeked up out of the sound booth, trying to see the interview group without fully exposing his face. There was grumpy Arthur, visibly restraining himself from throttling Francis Bonnefoy (matched Arthur’s drunken description perfectly) seated next to him. Wang Yao was seated next to Bonnefoy and had a “grumpy grandpa” attitude like something straight out of a cartoon.

On the other side of the long table, German Ludwig Beilschmidt had tried to take the interview seriously but ended up constantly scolding the Italian seated next to him. Alfred peered a little closer at these two; they were a cute couple. Honda Kiku sat quietly next to Vargas, absently drawing anime-style characters and animals on a notepad.

And then there were the watchers. A beautiful, distinguished looking (he could feel her strength) American woman watched the interview through the wide observation window. Oh, she was happy.

There were kids, too, looking quite bored as they wandered in and out of view. Two of the small ones had Arthur’s eyebrows (Peter and Wendy Kirkland) so the third had to be Luca Edelstein. The teenaged Alessandro Vargas and David Johnson had been given a room next to the kiddies.

The one he guessed was Johnson wandered by the window, hair greased into a dramatic pompadour. Alfred’s eyebrows drew together, feeling a strange tug, an urge to go and introduce himself.

Right, because that was going to happen.

Hi, I’m Alfred, but I’m also the United States of America. I’m not really clear on how it works, but let’s just say that my health tends to follow the same ups and downs as this country, so there’s definitely a connection. Plus, I can totally get into people’s heads and feel their emotions or even their thoughts if I try REALLY hard. That’s not creepy, right? Anyways, hi! You seem interesting. Want to be my friend?

Yeah, no, not happening.

Suddenly, he felt a spike of focus on him. His eyes darted over to the woman (Jennifer). Her eyes had gone very wide as she stared at him.

Crap, re-entering stealth mode.

He was tugging his hat back down and plotting his post-interview escape, when a wave of WRONG BAD DANGER ANTICIPATION HATRED swept over him.

The fire alarm suddenly screamed, the sound drilling straight through their skulls while a bright light frantically flashed in the hallway.

Patty jerked, looking up towards the ceiling in confusion.

“What,” she began. She started, then looked at the nations. “This wasn’t scheduled for today, but . . . ” She touched her earpiece, calling the producer. “George, should we evacuate?”

“Let me see if I can contact--”

Chaos erupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had a bit more to clean up in this section. No substantial changes, just smoothing out the language and flow of dialog.


	8. Chapter 8

Alfred covered his nose with a hand, holding back a sneeze while he lay flat on top of the wall above the ceiling tiles. He could hear the sounds of chaos below him, flash-bangs scorching everything in sight, more smoke grenades dispensing their foul clouds, and bodies hitting the ground with a thud as the victims succumbed to knock-out gas.

What the hell was going on?

Seconds after feeling an awful wave of WRONG BAD DANGER ANTICIPATION HATRED, the doors to the interview and control rooms had swung open and grenades sailed through the air. Alfred, already keyed up by encroaching hostility, had spotted and identified the projectiles even as they bounced across the floor.

Using the instincts and skills he’d honed over the past centuries serving in every branch of his Armed Forces, he’d taken the only avenue of escape left -- and leapt straight up into the drop ceiling, disappearing before the the attackers entered the control room.

There was nearly as much chaos outside as there was below him. The fire alarm continued to screech and he could feel increasing turmoil and panic spreading to the surrounding buildings. The bad, no evil, presence seemed to be everywhere, whipping the fear to higher levels, working towards some unknown goal.

‘Shit,’ Alfred thought. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to find an open mind he could lean on for information. ‘That woman . . . ’

* * *

“Don’t say a single word,” Jennifer breathed, arms wrapped around Sealand, Wy, and Kugelmugel, holding them so close they were practically on top of each other. They were kneeling on the carpet just down the hallway from the now smoke-filled interview room, watched over by a masked soldier.

Seborga and Molossia had both been forced face-down on the ground, hands bound behind them with zip-ties. The Italian lay completely still, pressing his face into the carpet, desperately trying to keep from attracting notice. Molossia, however, couldn’t suppress the angry snarl on his face or the tension rippling through his lanky frame.

Still holding the micronations, Jennifer cast her eyes to the rooms the nations and radio staff had been occupying. The smoke seemed to be dispersing a bit . . .

Gas-mask-equipped fighters disappeared into the smoky rooms, returning moments later dragging the unconscious forms of the radio host, Patricia, and the show producer, George. They were swiftly restrained and dumped near Seborga and Molossia.

A muffled gunshot rang out, then another. A scared whimper floated out of the micronations and they huddled closer to the American’s protective embrace.

The shots continued. Jennifer counted them, tension thick in the air. Four, five, six, seven.

Seven. Not eight.

Her eyes flickered over at the other micronations, at Patricia and George. That other man . . . that one she had thought was Canada until she’d seen vibrant blue eyes . . .

“The targets are secured and all hostages have been located.”

One of the soldiers was speaking in a heavy French accent as he reported in via a mostly hidden comm device. He listened for several moments, then nodded.

“Take the targets to the tunnel. The rest of you, gather the hostages from the other floors and move them all to the TV studio. We need to be ready.” The soldier turned to look at Jennifer, at the children she continued to protectively cradle. “And just who are you?” he demanded.

“We’re . . . uh . . . we’re from a local, a local homeschooling co-op,” Jennifer replied, carefully adding a tremor to her voice as she began to detail the story she’d been constructing that, if she was lucky, would at least allow her to protect the children. “We were here . . . um . . . here taking a tour -- of the building -- my son David, h-he’s interested in film and TV.

“One of the moms,” she paused, licking dry lips, “one of the moms in the co-op, her . . . her niece is a student in the Department of Radio-Television-Film -- she let us in.” A hint of tears. “There was a-a special interview going on -- we were watching -- it was a great educational opportunity and we were, were hoping we might even get to meet the diplomats. That’s rare, you know? For people like us.” Squeezing the terrified micronations, she gave the soldier a wide-eyed, tear-filled, frightened look.

“A homeschooling co-op,” the soldier repeated in a disbelieving voice.

“We . . . we just weren’t, you know, really happy with the education the public schools provided.” Jennifer cast a silent thank you to her sister for talking her ear off on the topic. “So a bunch of us parents, we . . . um . . . banded together to teach our kids.” She sobbed. “Please, we haven’t done anything wrong, please don’t kill us.”

The soldier studied her, shaking and sobbing but still firmly holding onto the frightened children. Other soldiers began to carry the limp bodies of the nations out of the interview room and down the hall towards the stairs. Several tense moments passed.

“Which one is David?” the soldier finally demanded.

Jennifer swallowed.

“The one in black, with the gelled hair. He, he’s going through a phase . . . “ She let her voice trail off, praying Molossia would play along.

The soldier moved over to Seborga and Molossia, shoving the pompadoured teen over onto his side with a push from his heavy boot.

“If you hurt my mom, I’ll fucking kill you,” the micronation snarled, glaring up at the soldier.

‘Bless you,’ Jennifer thought in relief.

“Merde,” the soldier muttered. He shoved Molossia onto his back with a solid kick. “You,” he gestured at the soldier standing guard. “Restrain the kids and the mom, and go lock their asses in a closet somewhere. We’re not here to babysit a bunch of whining brats.”

The small micronations cried out in fear as they were ripped away from Jennifer and harshly restrained.

“It’s going to be okay,” Jennifer reassured as she was hauled upright. “Just do what they say.”

“Walk,” the guard snapped after binding her hands behind her and dragging Seborga and Molossia to their feet.

‘Please,’ she silently begged as she started to walk down the hallway, forced on by the threat to the micronations now under her protection. ‘Throw us in the closet and then go away. Leave us alone. Forget about us. Once we’re alone, we can come up with some way to escape. And,’ her eyes drifted towards the empty control room, ‘please, let that man be who I think it is.’

* * *

After several long minutes of silence, Alfred eased up the corner of one of the fiberboard tiles next to him, peeking out to survey the control room. The dark, malevolent presence had eased off slightly, diminishing as the attacking force retreated to another area of the building. Finally, deciding it was clear, he lifted the tile off the narrow metal rails holding it in place and dropped down to the floor.

Alfred surveyed the damage; chairs were overturned, the equipment smashed, and large scorch marks covered every surface.

“You fuckin’ assholes,” he hissed. His eyes flashed with a deadly light. He hadn’t heard everything. It didn’t matter. He’d picked up enough in between the waves of sheer terror he’d felt from his people. Enough to find these bastards and end them. He snarled. “It is a good day to die. For you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edits in this chapter included fixing building/movement confusion and smoothing out language.


	9. Chapter 9

"No more wandering off," Canada scolded the small, white bear he carried in his arms. Prussia snickered next to him.

“Is finding Kumajiro rooting through a dumpster behind a bar better or worse than potentially finding him drinking in a bar?” Prussia asked, red eyes dancing gleefully as he dug into the bag of greasy cheese-fries he’d picked up at said bar.

“It smelled weird in there,” Kumajiro commented as he glanced over at Prussia . . . or rather, the oil-soaked bag he carried.

“Both of you shut up,” Canada groaned. They’d been searching for the wayward bear for hours. They’d walked up and down city blocks, through the Texas State Capitol grounds, and beyond as Canada tried to hone in on his lifelong companion.

“I’m just saying,” Prussia continued, still grinning as he downed a stringy handful of cheese-coated french fries.

Before Canada could reply, he found himself gasping, gut-wrenching dread sweeping through him.

A police car pushed its way down the busy road, sirens wailing. Seconds later, another followed. Then a third.

The heavier blare of a fire engine roared as it joined the parade of emergency response vehicles.

In an instant, the air was a cacophony of sirens.

“What’s happened,” Prussia breathed, tracking the flashing lights as the emergency vehicles barrelled towards the University . . . the same direction they were walking.

With hesitation, Canada replied, “I’m not sure but . . . It’s bad. Really bad.” He glanced around, spotting a restaurant up ahead. “This way,” he ordered, hurrying forward. They would be able to find a TV in the restaurant bar.

“--a hostage situation on the University of Texas campus. We have a reporter near the scene. Neil, can you take us through what’s happened so far?”

“Yeah, Gwen, I’m a few blocks from campus behind the police line. The first sign of trouble was multiple fire alarms going off in the Communications area of The University of Texas. Today was the first day of the _Take Note_ environmental conference and fair, which meant classes had been cancelled and the affected buildings were mostly empty.” The reporter paused as a police car raced by. “Minutes after the fire alarm went off, _gunfire_ went off and now we can now see there are _snipers_ on the roofs of several buildings.”

“Dear God,” Canada whispered.

“Neil, what do we know about the hostages?”

“The attackers main contingency appears to be holed up in the Jesse H. Jones Communication Center Building B. We believe campus police attempted to penetrate building B via the skybridge connecting the two wings of the Jones Communication Center but the assault appears to have been unsuccessful. We have not gotten any official word on the state of the officers or the civilians who were inside the building. We do know that several foreign officials were supposed to be present in the building at the time of the attack for an interview about the conference.”

“Have the police been able to establish communication with the hostage takers? Have any demands been issued?”

“There are no reports of communication yet. And given that foreign officials are involved, it could be that some or all of the involved parties are waiting for federal officials to arrive on scene.”

“We have to do something, Birdie,” Prussia hissed, tugging Canada’s arm and pulling him away from the growing crowd. “Mein bruder is in there. I’m not leaving him to be rescued by _humans_.”

“England and France are in there too,” Canada agreed. He tightened his arms, hugging Kumajiro close. “Do you think these guys are taking advantage of the conference to make some kind of political point or do you think they’re . . . well, targeting _us_?”

“Nonsense.” Prussia shuddered as they hurried down the street. “The very idea is utterly ridiculous. Besides, how could mere humans know anything about us? It’s a preposterous notion; inconceivable!”

“ . . . ”

“Right?” Prussia asked seeking reassurance.

Canada looked worried. “Normally, I’d say yes, but . . . let’s just say I have a feeling this is a lot worse than anyone realizes.”

* * *

England’s head hurt. He hadn’t felt like this since . . . that time . . . in the ‘40s. What had happened then? He shook his head, struggling to clear the fog away only to feel a sharp, stabbing pain. God, it felt like his skull had been split in two. Hot, sickening bile rose in his throat.

“If you puke on me, I’ll shoot you again,” a voice snarled in his ear.

Gagging, England forced the bile down and languidly opened his eyes. He was . . . in a . . . tunnel? Hadn’t he been . . . _the interview_. His brain was slowly starting to work. He’d been sitting through an awful interview . . . several of his neighbors had been there. The fire alarm had gone off . . . and then . . . his memory was blank.

He couldn’t worry about that now. He twitched, feeling narrow plastic strips biting into the flesh around his wrists, his arms bound tightly behind his back.

“Stop that,” the voice snarled again, turning and slamming the captive nation into a wall. England gasped, pain rippling through him.

Forcing back the bile once again rising in his throat, England realized he’d been thrown across someone’s shoulders like a sack of flour and was being carried down a dark, dank, and clearly abandoned tunnel. What the hell?

The march down the humid tunnels halted briefly, and England heard a heavy door being unbolted and pulled open. Upon passing through the door they came into a dark hallway before moving into what had once been an underground medical research laboratory, complete with an observation room.

Inside the lab, one wall was outfitted with large window that was smudged and grimy. The paint on the walls was peeling and the ceiling showed signs of mold and mildew, which accounted for the unpleasant musty smell. The floor was concrete with a drain in the center. Along the walls were the occasional instrument carts, once shiny and gleaming, now rusted, covered in cobwebs, and showing blood and fluid splatter of days long passed.

England winced as he was tossed onto the ground next to France. He cast a cautious look around, noting that the other personifications seemed to be coming to or were already awake. They were all tightly bound. Soldiers lined the walls, all of them glaring or scowling at the Nations.

A soldier appeared in the doorway, wheeling an innocuous looking crate into the room. Another soldier strode over to the crate, flipped the latch, and opened the box. He took out a IV bag with a strange, opaque liquid inside and turned to address the disoriented personifications.

“Do you see this?” he asked in a distinctly Nigerian accent, pacing back and forth. “This, this we have developed especially for _your_ kind.” He stopped and stared down at England.

“What do you mean ‘our’ kind?” England demanded in a raspy voice. “We’re just diplomats. We are no different--”

The soldier reached down and seized the front of England’s shirt, dragging him up to eye level and shaking him like a rag doll.

“DO NOT” the soldier began with a shout, “. . . lie to me,” he finished in a hiss. “I know exactly what you are. I know that you play with the countries you represent with no regard to those that live in them. I know _you_ are the reason that my people are sick and starving. I know that _you_ allow criminals to run rampant in our country. And I know _you_ are the reason my mother is dead . . . the reason my brother is dead!” He dropped England back on the ground and spun around, snarling at the other nations.

“So, now, it is your turn to die. And _when_ it works, we will broadcast it for the entire world to see. We will tell them exactly how to kill you, and finally, finally we will be free. Free of you! Free to determine our own destiny as a country.” His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

The Nigerian smirked. “Would you like to know? Would you like to know how it is we are going to kill you?”

“You are very silly,” Russia replied after a beat of silence. He smiled, seemingly unbothered by the precarious situation he found himself in or the gun-wielding soldiers surrounding the room. “You say we’re countries -- if that truly is the case, then how can you kill us? Nations cannot be slain with a simple bag, no matter what is in it.”

The Nigerian shifted his body to the right so he was facing him fully. He gazed down on Russia with smug condescension.

“I believe I will let you try our concoction first, allow you to, shall we say, experience its effects. After the first round of tests, you will know we are serious. I think then, you will be ready to listen . . . ready to show respect. It will not matter, of course, because regardless of your attitude, regardless of anything you say, at the end of 8 hours, you will be dead.”

The soldier squatted so he was eye level with the object of his hatred. He waited until Russia locked eyes with him before allowing his demeanor to shift. His eyes, filled with unrelenting animosity, bored into the personification’s before concluding in unbridled contempt.

“And in 24 hours, so will the rest of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: We made some changes to the building information here -- huge thanks to UT for adding new information to their website with more detail on what is where! None of the changes affect the story, just the movement of people within the building.


	10. Chapter 10

“I’m sorry, did you just say you wanted 27 pairs of purple clown shoes?”

“No, no, no, do you not listen, I said 27 shoes. Did you hear the word pair in there anywhere. No!”

“So, you want . . . an odd number . . . of shoes?”

“Precisely.”

“. . .”

“I hear the judgement in your silence and it is not appreciated! If you must know, I have a peg-legged friend. Nosey! Oh and you have two hours before I shoot a hostage in the foot. Teach you to discriminate against the peg-legged population. Close-minded Americans! So much for your civil rights movement!”

Alfred continued to lurk around the corner from the gathered hostage takers, listening in stunned silence at the insane-sounding dialogue between the terrorist and the law officials outside. The voice sounded like the soldier that had spoken with Jen . . . and like someone straight out of Monty Python. _’These people are insane,’_ he realized.

The electronic hum of the building diffused into ominous silence.

‘And now they’ve cut the power, great,’ Alfred grumbled internally. Edging away from the office where the terrorists stood clustered, he eased his phone out of his pocket, waking it up with a quick swipe at the screen. A few quick adjustments to the settings and the alert tones and indicator lights were shut off. And still no signal or wifi. Someone had clearly set up a signal jammer.

Alfred began a slow creep back towards the corner, mindful of how amplified any sounds would be without the hum of modern life filling the background.

He’d been planning on edging the phone’s camera around the corner, to try and use the video function to give him a better handle on the situation when he heard the soft squeak of new boots closing in behind him. He listened, tracking the movement.

Closing in.

Turning down the hallway.

A slight hiccup in stride when the figure spotted him.

The creak of a weapon slowly being brought to bear . . . coming nearer . . . and nearer

He spun, one hand seizing his foe’s gun hand ( _squeezing, twisting, breaking bones, warping metal, TRY AND SHOOT ME NOW_ ), the other clamping down on the would-be attacker’s throat. He dragged the terrorist close and bared his teeth.

“Why don’t we find some place more private and have a little chat.” Alfred’s voice was husky as he whispered in the soldier’s ear, a soft purr that belied the overwhelmingly crushing strength he’d used to disarm him.

And suddenly the terrorist understood how a gazelle felt in the mouth of a lion.

* * *

Alfred kept a tight grip on his prisoner’s neck while he tested the door of the janitor’s closet. Locked.

“What do you think,” he mused, glancing over at his terrified captive, “just bust in or try to pick the lock?” He eyes glinted with malice. “I’d hate for someone to, ah, _interrupt_ our conversation.”

He studied the door for a moment, then snorted. “Standard interior school door, not hard.” With that, he delivered a controlled blow to the soldier’s skull, allowing him to slide limply to the floor.  
Fishing his wallet out, he studied the variety of slim plastic cards that filled the leather trifold and finally selected his American Express. To paraphrase the slogan, it would get him where he needed to be--one last time.

Stepping forward, he brought a foot to rest on the soldier’s torso as he slid the corner of the thin plastic card into the crack between the door and the frame. A bit of jiggling with the card got it around the edge of the door, allowing him to smoothly slide the card down and pop the lock.

With a smirk, Alfred opened the door, shifting to the side as he reached down and tossed his captive into the closet, stepping in after him and pulling the door shut behind him.

He only had a moment to take in the sight of several broken shelves and wide-eyed gazes before something slammed down on his head.

Spinning around, Alfred raised his arms over his head just in time to block another blow. Wobbling slightly from the sudden attack, he grabbed at the impromptu weapon and yanked it away from his assailant. Backing away, he shook away the dizziness floating through his head and blinked a few times.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry! I thought you were with _them_.”

Alfred blinked again, eyes finally focusing. ( _Jennifer. And . . . others like him? But they were so small. . ._ )

“S’alright,” he responded, with a slight wince. He looked down at the weapon he’d snatched away. “You hit me with a backpack vacuum?”

“I made do with what we had,” she snapped with a glare. She turned her dark look to the soldier Alfred had shoved into the closet. Sealand and Wy were leaning over looking at him while Seborga went through his pockets. The Italian let out a faint Hah! when he discovered a small stash of zip ties and passed one to Molossia so the other micronation could restrain his hands.

“This guy’s hand is fucked up,” Molossia muttered as he wrapped the soldier’s hands together with the plastic tie.

“Had to make sure he didn’t shoot,” Alfred commented briefly. He glanced around the closet, taking in its contents. Spotting an empty spot under the industrial sink attached to the wall behind him, he turned to put the vacuum pack down. He could feel Jennifer’s eyes boring into him, the questions and suspicions swirling through her. Most of all, he could feel her focus and drive -- she had one goal and nothing else would matter until she’d gotten the children and herself to safety.

Straightening up, Alfred turned around. “I’m Alfred. Are you guys okay?”

“Jennifer,” the dignified woman replied after a moment. “I’m responsible for these children.” She pointing to them one at a time and introduced them with their human names. “These are Peter and Wendy, Luca, Alessandro, and David. We’re all fine, aside from being trapped in a building with terrorists.” She scowled again.

“Well, with any luck,” Alfred replied, “we’ll be able to do something about that.” He shooed the children away from the restrained terrorist and squatted down next to his head.

“You’re scared and hurting but you’re not ready to talk quite yet, are you,” Alfred asked in a thoughtful voice. He reached down and rolled the soldier onto his back, deliberately forcing his weight onto his injured hand. “But it won’t take much, will it?”

Rising to his feet, Alfred started pulling bottles off the shelves, dumping their contents into a large plastic bucket which he placed in the sink. Mentally crossing his fingers, he turned the handle of the faucet, hoping he could get just enough water . . .

A small trickle of water emerged and as it began to fill the bucket, the chemical mixture began to smoke. Once the water had stopped flowing, he turned the handle once more, closing the tap.

Picking up the bucket, he set it down next to the soldier and dragged him into a sitting position.

“I hate to do this, I really do,” he began squatting down to look the soldier directly in the eye, “but people are in danger -- _my people_ \-- and I do not have time to deal with bullshit.” He waited for a moment, letting his words sink in. “I just got back from six years in the Middle East with the United States Marine Corp. I have seen shit that would give you nightmares and I got to witness first-hand a number of . . . unique . . . interrogation tactics. Most of which,” he added, “had been employed by monsters like you and your little band of terrorists.

“You are going to tell me everything I want to know. You will not lie. You will not hold anything back. And if you do?” he grabbed the soldier’s hair and yanked his head over the smoking bucket. “All-purpose cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner, bleach, and water. Basically, homemade sulfuric acid. Talk or I pour this down your throat and find someone else to question.”

The soldier’s resistance melted as if it had come into contact with the very acid his head hovered over.

“We . . . we aren’t here to _hurt_ anyone,” the soldier stammered, staring into the smoking mixture with terrified eyes. Alfred shoved him back onto his ass.

“You used grenades. You shot and killed foreign dignitaries. You pointed a gun at _children_ ,” Alfred hissed, eyes flashing with rage. “You’ve already shown your willingness to use extreme and excessive violence. Why the hell should I believe you?” The soldier whimpered, cringing at the heat of his captor’s glare.

“It was the only way! The enemy . . . they’re too strong, too well guarded. This was our only chance!” The soldier stumbled over his words. “This conspiracy has been going on for centuries. Those weren’t human dignitaries. They’re _old_ , they’re _immortal_ , they’re anything _but_ human.

“They’ve been around for a long, long time, controlling the governments they attach themselves to, pulling the strings behind the scenes to use us to fight _their_ petty arguments and disputes.”

The soldier started gathering steam.

“There’s usually at least one in every country, sometimes more. And they hide their true identities from everyone, maybe even each other. They _use_ the name of the country they’ve taken over and the humans who made it as _slaves_!”

Alfred felt his muscles tightening, his heart hammering louder and louder in his ears as the soldier continued to describe the horrors and depredations of the ones he called Immortals.

“This is our one chance,” the soldier was leaning forward now as best he could, his voice earnest. “This country, for whatever reason, has managed to keep the Immortals out. They hate coming here, have ever since the birth of the United States. If we can kill them here, if we can do enough damage, if we can bring them to their knees” his voice shifted seamlessly into a determined growl, “then no one will ever suffer their tyranny. Ever. AGAIN!”

Alfred remained still, staring down as his captive, face devoid of any apparent emotion. As the silence began to stretch on, the soldier began to squirm, a sense of unease filling the room.

Suddenly, the tension at a breaking point, Alfred’s mood shifted wildly.

“There’s a pretty major flaw in your plan,” Alfred finally commented, rising to his feet. He stretched, then let his arms swing back to his sides, relaxed. He gazed into the soldier, a menacing gleam in his eyes, a half smile on his handsome face. “Of course, there’s no way you could have known, but still. Big flaw. Completely destroys your plan.”

The soldier stared up, unease rapidly turning to fear.

Alfred dropped back down to the terrorist’s level. Reaching out, he ran his fingers caressingly through his hair, tenderly down the side of his face, “You’re one of mine,” he began gently, lovingly--

* * *

PAIN. Sudden and sharp radiated through his jaw as the tender caressing became a harsh and unrelenting grip. Pressing, pressing, pressing . . .

He cried out in pain. The grip lessened, enough for his eyes to refocus, but he wished they hadn’t. For the glacial gaze he was plunged into injected dread in his heart, dread that now consumed him. It started in his stomach, but the icy sensation spread quickly penetrating his mind, ripping, tearing, taking -- ravenous. NOW the pain was unfathomable, depthless; he wished for the near crushing grip, he wished for death--

Nothing. Complete emptiness. A Void he didn’t seem to have thoughts left to fill.

Then, the sound of fire, his captor’s voice white hot with tenuously controlled rage.

“I am the United States of America and you have HURT my people. AND THREATENED _Guests_ in. My. HOME.” The man’s rage was suffocating, compounding the icy dread instead of melting it. HE continued his tirade, his eyes now burning with his voice. “You have _NO RIGHT_ to hurt ANYONE!”

* * *

Alfred simultaneously released his grip on the terrorist’s jaw and pushed him back causing his head to bounce off the tile floor, dazing him.

Standing he took a deep breath. He was losing control and potentially compromising their position. He took a few measured steps away in the small space of the closet to create a little more distance reaching for that lithe, deadly cool demeanor he had possessed only moments before. One more deep breath and he was back under control.

* * *

“America?”

Jen watched the blond man carefully, looking for any sign of the dark rage returning. Wy continued to burrow into her side, desperately clutching her shirt as she trembled. Seborga had taken hold of Kugelmugel and Molossia held Sealand, all watching the unfolding drama with frightened eyes as they prayed that anger didn’t turn away from the terrorist.

“America!” Jen repeated, raising her voice. ‘Damn,’ she thought as he jerked and spun, a startled look on his face. ‘He looks just like Canada.’

“Sorry,” he muttered as he ran a hand through his hair. His eyes flickered over the micronations, a small wince flitting across his face at the image of fear they created, huddled trembling in the corner. He took another deep breath, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.

Jen glanced down at the still smoking bucket of acid. She nodded towards it. “Perhaps we should dispose of that? Before there’s an accident?” she asked.

America blinked, then blushed. “Right, sorry. Again.” He wrinkled his nose as he picked up the bucket, muttering “God, I’m starting to sound Canadian,” as he set it in the sink.

A bark of laughter slipped out before Jen could suppress it. “You can’t be Canadian,” she mused, still watching him. “You’re America.”

“I-” America bit his lip. He looked uncomfortable as he turned away from the sink. He started looking through the shelves, refusing to meet Jennifer’s eyes. Finally finding a box of baking soda near the extra vacuum bags, he turned back to the sink and started pouring the white powder into the bucket. “That’ll neutralize the acid,” he said in a tight voice. “Um, about that whole ‘I am the United States of America thing,’” he began.

“You are the United States of America,” Jen interrupted, “and I do believe I’ve been doing your job.”

“Are you America?” Molossia demanded. America blinked at him, startled at the sudden confrontation.

Rage bubbled up and out of the micronation, spilling forth in a torrent of angry words. “Where the fuck have you been? Do you realize what it’s been like being a personification in a country no one thought had a representative?” He pushed Sealand at Seborga and stalked over to the sink where America still stood. “Do you have any idea what it’s like when these big, “proper” nations look at me and wonder what’s wrong with me? How I can exist? How I-”

“I’m sorry.”

The interruption, as well as the apology, stopped Molossia’s outrage dead in its tracks.

Alfred slowly reached out a comforting hand, and when Molossia didn’t push him away, gently cradled his head, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he repeated in a softer voice. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know about . . . any of this. I knew I was different, that I was America. But I never knew there were others, not really.” He paused a moment. “And even if I suspected, I never had any reason to trust that I could reveal myself.” America gave Molossia a few moments to settle, an innate flow of information trickling into him as he focused on the other nation- no, micronation. Watched and felt as the micronation took a few deep breaths and the turmoil from earlier began to subside, ease. Then, instinctively, he let his hand thread through Molossia’s hair, rising up to ruffle the gelled locks before falling to his side.

Molossia squawked, automatically reaching up to fix his hair. As America grinned at him, he could feel the tension and fear that had lurked over him his entire life melting away and with it much of the anger all those insecurities had created. His hair standing up properly, he gave America a level look and held out his fist. America raised his fist and reached it out meeting his counterpart’s. On contact, both personifications opened their hands and pulled them away in a blowback motion.

They were good.

Alfred turned to flank Molossia and looked at Jen. She stared, incredulous in the face of the male bonding taking place. Warmth flood through him as he looked at his citizen, his micronation standing solidly at his side. “So, what do we do now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: we made several additions to this section in order to better clarify Alfred’s unique relationship with his people as well as the his initial reaction to the micronations. We felt that the first draft skimmed over these moments and didn’t really showcase everything that was happening or how the various characters present are reacting to them.


	11. Chapter 11

The frustration of a single thought pervaded the very essence of his being: ‘I should have been with them.’

Canada suppressed a hiss as his phone rang again, jabbing the sleep button with his thumb as he stared past the police barricade. He didn’t care what his boss wanted -- he wasn’t leaving the city until he _knew_ England and France were safe.

“Sir, if you don’t walk away right now, I will have to arrest you!”

Pressing his lips together, Canada shoved his phone into his pocket and reached out to drag Prussia away from the barricade.

“Come on.” His voice was clipped as he yanked at the other man’s arm.

Muffling a curse, Prussia jerked his arm free and stalked away from the weary-eyed police officer. Canada fell in step next to him, grabbing hold of his arm once more to steer him further from the barricades.

“They’re just _standing_ there,” Prussia snarled. “Some awful _scheisse_ is happening and West is trapped in there without me or my overwhelming awesomeness!”

“Anything we could do from here would be useless,” Canada responded sharply, “especially with all the officials running around.” He glanced over his shoulder at the barricades where the officer continued to direct gawkers back and away.

As he and Prussia rounded the block, his phone rang again, turning an otherwise delightful jangle into an unceasing annoyance. Canada hissed and yanked the device out, determined to put an end to the calls once and for all.

“Hello?” he answered softly, promptly berating himself for his complete inability to be anything other than polite.

The voice on the other end -- was NOT his boss.

“Your military record is fucking impressive,” a high pitched voice stated. “My friend is stuck inside with these assholes. Want to help me get him out?”

* * *

The plan had come together nicely as far as Alfred was concerned. He, Jen, and Seborga all had military experience and, once they got their hands on some weapons, would lead the charge to retake control of the newsroom and free the hostages. From there, they could get information on where the personifications had been taken and make a plan to rescue them. Now if he could just convince the micronations that weren’t actively involved of his, and the plan’s, legitimacy, things would be perfect.

“So let me get this straight,” Sealand began authoritatively, “you took information from the terrorist’s mind?”

Knowing that he had no choice but to explain, America took a deep breath and tried to explain in a way that didn’t sound crazy . . . or like it was something straight out of a comic book. “Because that particular terrorist is an American citizen, I have an interesting, I guess you could say close, connection to him. I’ve always had the ability to sense my citizens, and if I focus, I can often hear, or read, their thoughts. It’s like an energy, constantly pulsing around me, something that I can get wrapped up and lost in. Sometimes I’m sensing the thoughts of my citizens I don’t even realize it, well mostly.”

Based on the looks he was getting, the “not crazy” part of this didn’t appear to be working out so well.

Wy piped up, “And that’s just ok, for you to invade the mind of one of your citizens?” She stared at him with incredulous eyes.

Alfred sighed deeply. “No. It’s not. I lost my temper. Look, this isn’t something I do all the time . . .” words evaded him. “I mean, you’re nations, sort of, surely you must know what I mean. Surely you must feel your citizens too.” He looked searchingly at the micronations around him, hoping desperately that this wasn’t some phenomenon unique to him. It had always just been a part of him.

Finally, Seborga spoke up, “I, I don’t know that I’ve ever been able to read the mind of a citizen, or if I could do it if I tried, but I do feel them, or something anyway. I do know that I feel something, like the essence of what makes me Seborga, and I know that essence is tied to overall well-being of my town, my home. So yes, I get it.”

Seborga looked over at Sealand and the others, “I think, I think he’s telling the truth, and I think we have to do this. What other choice do we have?”

“But what about you? Are you _sure_ you’ll be okay, Seborga?” Kugelmugel pleaded, clutching the older micronation’s shirt.

Seborga flashed him a reassuring grin. “I know I look young, but I _did_ work with the Italian resistance during World War II, you know.”

Alfred laid a reassuring hand on the Austrian micronation’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t let him come if I didn’t think he could handle himself,” he said in a calm voice. “Ideally,” he added, “I wouldn’t want _any_ of you guys to do something like this but this is a crisis. We _need_ to retake the newsroom and free the hostages. We need to find the other personifications,” he paused for a moment to reflect on that word, that concept, “we need to find the others and free them.”

He took a moment to glare down at his limp and broken-spirited captive lying still on the ground.

“These guys knew what they were getting into and we have to assume the others won’t be able to escape.” Alfred sighed. “And that means anyone who can help needs to step up and do so.”

Sealand and America locked eyes, America searching for final approval, agreement to move forward with the plan. It was clear that Sealand’s opinion mattered when it came to the other micronations, and America respected him for trying to protect his friends.

“America is right,” Sealand said decisively, “if we can help, we must. It’s our duty.”

“We’re not helping,” Wy mumbled. “We’re not doing anything.” Every bit of her appearance seemed to wilt, from the perky pink flower to her downcast eyes and dejected body language.

Jen knelt down and grasped Wy’s shoulders giving her a fierce look.

“You, Sealand, Kugelmugel, and Molossia ARE helping,” she insisted. “You will be ensuring that our prisoner doesn’t escape or raise an alarm. You are keeping our temporary base of operations out of enemy hands. And you are our ONLY source of intelligence about the personifications. You and the others have knowledge and insights that Amer . . . Alfred and I don’t have.”

“Rule one of military operations,” Alfred added as he looked over at the pair, “is alway protect home base. Second rule, right on the heels of one, always protect your intelligence assets.”

Sealand hurried to Wy’s side and took her hand. He gave Jen a determine look. “We will have NO trouble holding down the fort!” he proclaimed. “I AM a military fort -- this is literally the reason I exist. And with my leadership, we won’t fail!”

Wy huffed in mock annoyance at Sealand’s dictatorial style while silently squeezing his hand. His constant bravado was usually incredibly irritating but just this once, it was doing a good job of making her feel better. 

* * *

 

Alfred watched as Jen rose, murmuring a few more comforting comments to the small micronations. With everyone on the same page and (mostly) in agreement, he glanced down at Kugelmugel and nudged him towards Sealand.

The purple-clad micronation gave him an anxious look and darted over to the pair and took Wy’s other hand in his own.

“I could still come with you,” Molossia whispered from behind him.

Alfred turned and smiled, shaking his head. “I need you here,” he replied in a soft voice, “and it’s not because of any lack of skill or experience.” Tilting his head towards the cluster of micronations, he continued, “I need to know that Sealand and the others aren’t overpowered, that they have _someone_ here that will keep a level head and can get them out if the plan goes south.”

“Protect them, no matter what.”

“See, I don’t even have to say it, you just know. Perfect man for the job.” Alfred reached out and clapped him on the shoulder briefly before turning to Jen and Seborga. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road. I’m sick of letting these scumbags walk around like free men. Plus, we’ve got people to save.”

Jen and Seborga nodded grimly. After casting one last look over the small micronations, the trio turned and left.

* * *

“And you are sure we can trust this mystery man?” Prussia demanded as he and Canada continued their hurried walk to the gun store they’d located nearby.

“The contact was solid. He knew who we were and what we could do. Besides, he’s the only one who is willing to help us.” Canada gave Prussia a grim look. “If we want to help finish this, this is how we do it. It’s the only way.”

“If this is a complete and utter failure, I am certain West will come through and fix it in the end.” Prussia’s eyes roved from side to side as they moved and soon spotted their destination in a plain stone building.

The shop owner’s eyes widened in surprise when his two newest customers came bursting through the door.

“We need guns now,” Prussia demanded.

“I’m sorry sir, but we have very clear state policies and procedures to follow. There are forms to fill out and a background check to run. It will take a minimum of 45 minutes before you’ll be walking out of here.”

Despite his sincerely apologetic tone, the shopkeeper watched as the man who stood before him turned red in the face, his face contorting into a determined scowl fit to wilt the most dazzling daisies.

“We are international dignitaries of the highest order, and we are directly connected to the incident you see playing out on that puny box you call a television in the corner. So, you _will_ do exactly as we say or the world will know that you stood by and did nothing. They will know you were too much of a coward, a disgrace to the cowboy spirit you pride yourself in, to buck your own laws to help save those people.”

Prussia watched shocked as his fierceness and sheer amount awesome did not overwhelm the human in front of him as the shop owner’s face set in hard lines.

“Now look here, ain’t nobody ever called me a coward in my life. This is _my_ shop. I _will_ run it how I see fit. I have _never_ turned away someone in need. Now, if you are who you say you are then you damn well better show me some ID or get the hell out of my shop!”

Canada felt maybe it was time he intervened in this encounter. “Of course, we’d be happy to show you our ID sir,” he responded as he pulled out his wallet and handed it over. Prussia followed his example grudgingly.

“Well, it seems that you are who you say you are,” replied the shop owner, slightly surprised before settling into business mode. “So, why don’t you tell me now what you need.”

“You mean, you’re actually going to help us?” Canada couldn’t help his own surprise at this.

“Of course he is,” Prussia butted in, “I knew from the moment I saw him he was a man of character and strength.” He turned his attention to the owner, “You passed my test well.”

Turning another stern look on Prussia the owner growled, “Let me tell you something . . . we invented the word cowboy. There isn’t a soul on this planet that knows better than a Texan what that word means, certainly not some foreigner like you. The truth is I don’t like you very much. So, why don’t you shut that yap of yours while I help your friend here.

“Now you remember this, and you remember it well: Never, ever, insult a Texan, never question a Texan’s commitment to helping others, and never, NEVER, our ability - our willingness - to buck the system. This is _THE_ Lone Star State and acting independently of anyone and anything against whoever would stand in our way in order to do what’s right is the _only_ thing we know how to do!” He took a moment to take in Prussia’s dumbfounded expression before he turned back to Canada.

“You can help those people trapped in that buildin’ with those terrorist scum?”

“Yes sir, we can. We are well trained and highly invested. Some of our own are in there and we _will_ get them back.” Though his words were soft, they were firm, full of conviction.

“Alright, so I ask again, what can I do for ya?”

“2 AR-15s with a 6 Power ACOG scope? And suppressors to match? And if you can make them easy carries that would be helpful.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: We added several lines here that helped clarify some of Alfred’s actions in the previous chapters and how the other reacted to it. Beyond that, we cleaned up several other lines and descriptors.


	12. Chapter 12

The three nations that had been chosen as lab rats, Russia, Germany, and England, sat, stripped from the waist up and bound tightly with unforgiving leather straps to cold metal chairs, panting, gasping for breath at the center of this nightmarish prison. Their hearts raced and sweat trickled down their faces as this new and frightening poison continued to drip, drip, drip into their veins just as the blood seeping from the various slices along their bare arms and torsos continued its rapid, descendent drip, drip, drip to the cement floor. Unceasing -- unrelenting.

The others, France, Italy, Japan, and China, were left to watch, deposited unceremoniously on the floor, their hands and feet tied tightly with harsh, biting plastic. With each passing hour they struggled more and more to keep their concern --their Fear-- in check. How could any substance be having this kind of dramatic effect? It wasn’t possible. They were Nations . . . NATIONS damn it! They didn’t die, drugs had minimal effect, and they couldn’t be killed. And yet, suddenly, tendrils of doubt began to creep up, their tips spreading spine-chilling fear, as those long held truths came into question; the evidence in front of them glaring in stark contrast with these long held assumptions.

They ripped their gaze from their incapacitated compatriots bleeding and now wheezing in the center of the room. The Nigerian was speaking again.

“Just as I predicted - I now have your undivided attention. Good, though it will be of no benefit to you.”

The Nigerian smiled condescendingly, cruelly.

“Shall I tell you now what is happening to your friends?” He waited a beat before continuing. “The IVs that have been feeding them a steady liquid diet for the past few hours is actually a mixture of cortisol and the necessary and related chemical ATCH.” He paused for their dawning realization, but when he saw none he was incensed. The fathoms of bitterness he held inside deepened exponentially, turning his already tumultuous soul into a swirling, cavernous abyss of pure, unadulterated hatred. If ever he’d had the ability to show compassion for these _things_ in front of him, it was now lost. His next words were spat, practically hurled at the objects of his disgust.

“So arrogant. To never consider your weaknesses. So assured of your continued existence. I will enjoy telling the world of your existence, and I will enjoy more telling them how to eradicate your kind from the face of the Earth, how to rid themselves of your corrupt, controlling, filthy arrogance.

“You may be more than human,” he continued a little calmer, “but given the right conditions you are still subject to the weaknesses present in your very human bodies.” He smiled as though amused. “This is true justice: You are abominations, and you will be destroyed by nature. Yes. This is good. You see, cortisol is a naturally occurring chemical in the human body. It is a corticosteroid, a hormone. The primary hormone, in fact, which impacts the body’s stress response. When the body encounters a situation that triggers the “flight or fight” response, cortisol is released in the bloodstream in response to the production of ATCH. At normal exposure levels it is perfectly healthy and safe and performs a very important function. However, prolonged exposure to high levels of cortisol is quite dangerous. It has many negative side effects. Would you like to know which you are seeing before you?

“What you see before you is the suppression of the body’s ability to heal itself.” He smiled again upon seeing the horror that dawned across the observing nations faces. “Yes, it is very powerful. Very effective. Now all that remains is for us to cause catastrophic damage. Mainly, to the brain. If we destroy the brain, there is nothing left to control the body. Nothing left to command the body to heal itself. It is quite brilliant. Also, very simple . . .” the Nigerian trailed off, seeming to take a moment to ponder this, enjoy the knowledge of it.

“How does it feel, to know you, so great, so mighty, will be destroyed by something so simple?”

The question hung in the air unanswered. The nations remained resolutely silent, refusing to acknowledge the ridiculous claims of a mere man in the midst of a temper tantrum.

The silence was not allowed to linger.

Four terrorists, metal chairs in hand, entered from the adjacent room. They positioned themselves purposefully next to each of the unharmed nations on the periphery of the room. In quick succession, they set the chairs down with an air of finality, the resultant metallic clang bouncing off the hard surfaces throughout the room, echoing a cacophony of menace that seeped into the atmosphere and settled heavily around the occupants of the room. To the nations, a suffocating blanket. To the terrorist, the sweet honey of justice.

The Nigerian turned to the suffering nations in the center of the room.

“Your participation has been most helpful. You should be rewarded. Think of this as my gift to you.”

Russia, Germany, and England watched as the other nations were seized and the terrorist began the process of securing them to the metal chairs with similar leather straps.

“You will be the last to die,” the Nigerian continued addressing the trio in the center. “Allowing you the opportunity to watch your friends suffer the fate that shortly after will be yours.”

Germany growled, straining ineffectively at his bonds, “You bastard. Leave them the hell alone.”

“Don’t worry. I can assure you with what we have planned the process will be almost entirely painless. Unfortunately for you, however, some of my men are very angry and feel you should suffer more. I am sure you can agree that, as you have already suffered, it only makes sense for you to be the subject of their revenge.”

With that the Nigerian turned to leave the room.

As he did, three more terrorist emerged from the observation room, bringing with them instruments of pain, their sights set on the already bloodied nations.

Meanwhile, the men securing the other nations and setting up their IVs continued with their task unheeding of the first of many tortured screams to come.

* * *

“They’re taking a long time,” Kugelmugel muttered as he glanced over at the locked door. It felt like it had been ages since America, Jennifer, and Seborga had left to find weapons. Seated between himself and Sealand, Wy nodded in agreement and drew her knees up to her chest.

“If something had gone wrong,” Molossia stated as he continued his restless pacing up and down the length of the closet, “we would definitely know. There’d be one hell of a racket outside.”

“Unless America went crazy and started killing everyone in sight,” Wy fretted, gnawing at her lower lip and pulling her knees in even closer. The endless waiting was starting to frighten her, fueling all sorts of wild theories. She gave Sealand a pleading look. “You don’t think he would, do you?”

“Of course not,” was the fort’s quick reply. Sealand frowned, reflecting on his brief exposure to the mysterious nation. “I mean, he was pretty mad at that guy,” he started, nodding towards the prisoner seated in front of the shelves opposite them, “and, well, he’s kind of like England but he’s also like Denmark, so . . . ” his voice trailed off as Wy and Kugelmugel stared at him in confusion.

“This whole situation is a fucking mess,” Molossia stated a few moments later, breaking the silence that had ensued. Pausing his nervous patrol up and down the small path between the micronations and the prisoner, he gave the smaller personifications a hard look. “He’s trying to get _everyone_ out alive and intact. He’s not going to lose it and wreck everything.”

“Do you think he might get so fixated on hurting them that he forgets about us?” Kugelmugel gave them all an uneasy look. “He did before when he threatened to-” he broke off with a shudder, unwilling to finish the sentence.

“He stopped himself before,” Wy remembered. She stared blankly ahead, eyes coming to rest on the prisoner’s slumped body. “Maybe he’s just a little crazy, like Prussia . . . Miss Jennifer trusts him.” She added after a moment. Miss Jennifer was really smart. She wouldn’t trust someone who’d let her and the others get hurt, would she? And America was _her_ nation, she’d know, right?

“Crazy or not,” Sealand replied, an idea starting to take shape, “we were the first nations to meet him. And since we have loads more experience with the other nations, that kind of makes us his superiors, right?”

Molossia rolled his eyes and resumed his pacing. “What are you thinking now, you nutcase?”

“Well, do you think we could order him to recognize us? Since we’re his superiors? Or maybe we should be his teachers . . . ”

“You think you can just order him around?” Molossia shook his head as he continued to pace. “The guy that’s the “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave”? The self-appointed “World Police”? Really, you’re going to _make_ him do something?” He snorted. “Yeah, that’ll go well.”

Wy made a face. “I just want to go home. Mr. America, he’s just too . . . it’s . . . ” she huffed, trying to piece together different lines of thought, “I think,” she started slowly, “he can probably be as nice as Australia or Italy. But he can also be just as scary as Mr. Russia.” She shivered. “It was scary, the way he went back and forth earlier.”

Kugelmugel nodded. “He reminded me a lot of Germany or Hungary when they get mad. Or Prussia when he starts re-reading his diaries and muttering about getting back at people.”

“Well, he’s gotta be related to Canada, right? That means he must be an okay guy!” Sealand beamed.

“Who?” Wy asked, brow furrowing.

“Canada, Jerk England and France’s old North American colony. ” Sealand gave them an exasperated look. “Canada, the guy with the bear!” Seeing blank looks, he rolled his eyes and pushed on. “Well, America’s face is identical to Canada’s, so they have to be related. And Canada is one of the nicest people on the planet, so anyone he’s related to must be as well!”

“By that logic, Miss Ukraine should be as crazy as Miss Belarus and Mr. Russia,” Kugelmugel replied giving Sealand a disbelieving look.

“Miss Belarus isn’t crazy!” Wy retorted, twisting around to glare at Kugelmugel. “She’s _passionate_. That’s different.”

The conversation took a rapid turn to gossip, the three micronations sitting on the floor arguing back and forth about the different nations they all knew.

Molossia pushed down the feeling of isolation that always arose when they did this. He kept up his brief patrol, pausing to listen at the door, then turning and rapidly striding to the back of the closet, pointedly ignoring that he had no place in, nor anything to add to, the conversation.

He spared a side glance towards the trio as he strode over towards the door once more. Kugelmugel was describing some situation the Germanic and Italian nations had ended up in a few weeks earlier and about how he and Seborga had ended up having to sneak out in Germany’s car to rescue Prussia from a rampaging herd of elk.

God he wished America and the others would come back soon. Suddenly he felt like he was the one that needed rescuing.

No country had recognized the other micronations but at least they had family. All he had was Canada -- and that nation tried to avoid desert heat whenever he could.

There was a flutter in his stomach. Whatever happened, he had America now. From now on, it would be _different_.

A soft knock suddenly sounded through the room, causing the micronations to jump in surprise and fear.

Molossia suddenly grinned. That knock- _shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits_. They were back.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving Week Update Scshedule
> 
> We will be posting Chapter 14 on Wednesday the 25th and Chapter 15 on Sunday the 29th. We'll resume our every-three-days posting scheduling after that.
> 
> Thanks!

Canada thumbed through his Recent Calls, breezing past the unanswered calls from his Boss and to that strange number that had given Prussia and himself a mission, a way to try and help their trapped family members and colleagues.

Standing next to him in the narrow alley, Prussia fidgeted with the backpack slung over his shoulder and watched the flickering screen of Canada’s phone. While the quiet nation had completed the transaction at the gun store, Prussia had hoofed it to a nearby used clothing store and picked up both a pair of backpacks and changes of clothing to help them both better blend in with the college crowd.

Canada smirked when he finally found the unknown number, tapping it with a quick gesture. As it dialed, he gave Kumajiro a bounce and the bear reached out to offer one of the headset earbuds to Prussia, who was quick to take it and wind it up under his jacket hood and into his ear. Gilbird gave a single, soft chirp from his perch inside the soft hood, pecking briefly at the cord.

“Fucking what?” a high-pitched voice answered after only a few rings.

“We have the supplies,” Canada replied. He glanced up, eyes moving up and down the alley, keeping an eye out for onlookers or eavesdroppers. “It’s pretty clear,” he continued, voice cool and steady, “that you know who I am and what I can do. Before anything else happens, you are going to tell me who you are and what your interest in this is.”

Prussia inhaled sharply. It was rare these days to hear such a voice of authority from Canada -- it only seemed to come out during times of war (or when watching or playing hockey). That voice, that authority, it had been a siren sound for the Germanic nation during the World Wars. It had called to him, a promise of power and rage that ultimately manifested in a berserker-like fury he found intoxicating to fight.

Grabbing the mic on Canada’s portion of the headset, Prussia decided to apply a bit more pressure to the mystery speaker. “Now you listen,” he began in a haughty voice, “If you really know who we are, then you know I am the mighty and awesome Prussia, and I will not stand for this secrecy any longer. We demand to know who we are dealing with and how you know these things. Also, if this is a trick or a joke, know that you will not be able to hide from me. Nothing can be hidden from me and my awesomeness.”

Canada made an aggravated sound as his hand snapped up to keep his earbud from popping out. Kumajiro reached up and began to bat at Prussia’s arm, claws catching on the sleeves of the newly purchased black hoodie and forcing the Germanic nation to release the cord and back off.

“That prick’s annoying as shit. Don’t let him talk again,” the voice responded once the sound of scuffling stopped. Canada rolled his eyes and made a silent hurry-up gesture. “And yeah, I saw that,” the voice added. “Hurry the fuck up yourself, asshole.”

Prussia hissed, jerking his hood back as he whispered something to Gilbird. The small bird immediately took off and shot up towards the roofline, flying back and forth, searching for the camera that was apparently trained on them.

“Yeah, that’s going to achieve jack shit,” they were dryly informed. After listening to a few muffled curse words, the voice continued. “The name’s Tony. You’re not the only ones with people you care about locked up with these nutcases. I got eyes the cops don’t. I can’t tell you who these assholes are, but I can tell you how many are outside and where they are.”

“And the ones inside?” Canada asked after a moment.

“My guy inside can handle them,” Tony replied. “But these fucking snipers are fucking everything up. Take them out and we can finish this shit.”

“And why should we believe any of this,” Prussia demanded, reaching for the mic once more. “For all we know, you’re working with the terrorists.”

“Fine, the fuck do I care,” Tony snapped. There was more muffled cursing. “Like I said, my guy can handle himself and can even deal with the fucking snipers if he has to. If you want to piss on this opportunity, that’s your business. One more thing, fucking call me a fucking terrorist again, and I will fucking take you out.”

Prussia jostled Canada’s arm, a deadly, competitive light in his red eyes. “That is enough. I have never passed up an opportunity to do battle” he snarled. “Birdie, it’s time to kick some ass.”

* * *

Molossia shut the door quickly after granting Alfred and the two others entrance back into the storage closet.

With a flourish, Alfred displayed the weapons they had managed to acquire. “So,” he asked somewhat brightly, “who wants a weapon?”

He was met with blank stares. He continued on heedless, “What, seriously? What about you munchkins?”

“Of course we don’t need weapons,” Kugelmugel proclaimed, looking somewhat horrified at the prospect.

“Besides, didn’t you say earlier you didn’t really want us getting involved if it could be avoided,” Wy chimed in. She edged closer to Sealand, looking equally horrified.

“And we are _not_ munchkins!” Kugelmugel added before turning quickly to Seborga who had come to stand by him upon their return and whispered, “What’s a munchkin?”

Alfred smiled. “I was just joking,” he reassured them.

“Well, I hardly think this is a time for jokes,” Sealand said, feeling very grown-up in his assessment. Beside him, Wy nodded in strong agreement.

“Actually, we need a little levity right now.” Alfred gave them a serious look. “We are about to go into a rather dangerous situation with minimal intel, so we need a plan. When you’re tense, you don’t think, and by extension plan, as well. Since we need to be thinking to make a plan, I thought I’d take a crack at getting everybody to ease up for the time being. We will need that tension, and the sharpness that accompanies it, when we set back out, but it will come naturally. For now, it’s better if we all relax a little.”

“That being said,” Jen interrupted, giving America a somewhat exasperated look, “Molossia,” she continued, turning her gaze to the young micronation, “any experience with firearms?”

The lanky micronation gulped slightly. “Well, I’ve been hunting,” he started.

“Perfect,” Alfred stated maintaining his cheerful demeanor. He selected a medium caliber handgun and offered it to Molossia, “And it’s David, right?”

“Actually, I prefer Nick,” Molossia answered, looking away in embarrassment.

“But my research --”

“My name _is_ David, but I never really liked it, ya know, so I go by my middle name.” The explanation was exasperation incarnate. “Problem?” Molossia asked, in that testy and sullen way only teenagers can manage.

“No, Nick’s good. I like it. Suits you.”

Seborga threaded his fingers through Wy’s and gave the American personification an expectant look. “So, what’s the plan?” he demanded.

“Well,” Alfred started, “we know the hostages are being held in the TV studio. I say we get close in order to better assess the situation, then make a plan and execute. Ultimately, I think what we’ll be left with is to approach from their blind spot and take them out.”

“You know where there’s a blind spot in the TV studio?” Jen questioned dubiously.

“We are their blind spot,” America responded certainly. “As far as they’re concerned, they are in complete control of the situation and there is nothing and no one in this building that poses a threat to them. They’re over-confident, arrogant. When you’re that self-assured, you let your guard down.”

“And anytime you let your guard down, there’s a blind spot,” Jen finished.

“Exactly.” Alfred looked to the micronations. “So, what do you say?”

“Sounds like as good a plan as any,” Seborga reluctantly replied. He reached down and clasped Kugelmugel’s shoulder. “What about Sealand, Wy, and Kugelmugel?” he asked, giving America a questioning look.

Alfred and Jen shared a long, silent look, a quick, unspoken conversation flowing quickly between them.

“We take them with with.” Alfred replied simply.

“No way. That is absolutely not going to happen,” Seborga snapped in a rare flash of anger.

“Leaving them here unguarded is too big of a risk. As unsavory as it is, the only smart option is to take them with us. At least if they’re with us, we know they’re safe,” Jen added.

“We’ll go” Wy broke in. “If Miss Jennifer says it’s safe, or at least safer, we should go. She’s protected us from the very beginning. There’s no reason not to trust her.”

Seeing reluctant consent amongst the other micronations upon Wy’s assessment, Alfred forged ahead.

“Well, now that that’s settled, we should get ready to move out. Everybody double check your weapons, make sure you have everything you came in here with. Seborga, make sure the prisoner over there is secure and not going anywhere while we’re out. Wy, Sealand, and Kugelmugel, can you make sure to move any sharp objects in the room as far as possible from our captive? We don’t want him escaping.”

As they double checked their weapons and the micronations attended to their assigned task, Molossia moved towards America.

After a few moments of slightly nervous hovering, America finally looked up at him and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Umm . . . I was just wondering if I could ask you a question?”

“That’s kind of what the eyebrow raise was giving you permission to do. Just for future reference.” Alfred replied with playful sarcasm.

Molossia pulled a face at the slightly snarky reply, but moved forward with what he had to say nonetheless. “If the terrorist hadn’t folded like a wet cardboard box, would you . . . would you really have used that acid like you said,” he questioned, his tone laced in equal portion with concerned unease and morbid curiosity.

America stared back for what seemed like a long time, his face blank. Finally, he answered, “What do you think?”

Taken aback at the seriousness with which his question was turned back on him, Molossia took a moment to contemplate. A review of what he had witnessed led him to an answer he wasn’t sure he liked, but, again, he pushed on. “I think -- I think you would have done whatever it took, whatever it took to get the information you needed to protect your own.”

America’s response was brief and void of emotion.“You’re not wrong.”

With that, he turned away from Molossia and headed for the door, leaving Molossia feeling slightly bereft and wondering if he’d just screwed up their burgeoning friendship. Just as some of those old insecurities started to creep back in, America called back to him in a normal voice, “Come on,” he glanced back and offered Molossia a small half smile of camaraderie, “we’ve got some terrorist to take out.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next section will be posted on Sunday.

"It's been two hours and I have yet to see a single helium balloon floating free of your capitalist tyranny! I'm starting to think you don't truly care about the lives of our hostages."

Alfred glanced back at Jen as they lurked around the corner from the TV studio where the terrorists had set up camp. His citizen stared back at him in silent shock and confusion while the Frenchman continued his strange, rambling conversation. Alfred gave her a helpless shrug - he'd heard similar conversations during his earlier investigation, before he'd found Jen and the micronations and his life got turned upside-down.

Biting her lip, Jen eased closer to America, brow furrowing as she focused on the Frenchman's voice. Her hands absently held her newly acquired rifle in a steady, confident grip even as her own confusion mounted. The voice was definitely the man who'd ordered his men to lock the children and herself away but he'd been calm, collected, intelligent. This bizarre dialogue had to be some kind of front, a delaying tactic or some other strategic maneuver. There was no other way it could make sense.

As Jen continued to listen, Alfred shifted his gaze to look past her where Seborga, the children, and Molossia were lined up behind them.

Seborga looked back at him with a tense, worried expression, the same one he'd worn when they had been hunting down enemy patrols and seizing their weapons. Seborga definitely knew his way around guerrilla warfare, but wasn't a natural fighter.

Sealand, Wy, and Kugelmugel clung together, hands and arms entwined as they lurked behind Seborga. While clearly frightened by the prospect of the pending fight, the boys had enough presence of mind to set Wy between them, hoping to keep her safe if it all went horribly wrong.

Molossia brought up the rear of their little group, back pressed up against the wall while his head swung back and forth, looking forward towards America and the terrorists' central hub and back to watch out for anyone trying to sneak up on them. He held his stolen pistol in a tight, two-handed grip that spoke more of familiarity with firearms than comfort.

Alfred returned his attention to Jen, who still wore a tense, confused expression. Damn it, he couldn't let any of them get hurt! He knew Jen had been in the military and that Seborga wouldn't hesitate to shoot anyone who threatened them . . . but this was his responsibility. These monsters had come to his home, his school, and threatened his people.

He took a deep, silent breath, closing his eyes as he focused on the terrorist group just around the corner. As he stretched out with his mind, he felt first Jen and Molossia, and then the other micronations - he had no access to their thoughts or emotions like he did his citizens, but he could sense them as Others, as Nations. He pushed past them and found the hostages, felt their fear and stress. He reached further again, pushed the connection deeper until it was like seeing the room through their eyes. He could make out the terrorists and their positions. Eight, including the Frenchman on the phone, so there were seven well-armed guards to keep the hostages in check. If he was going to keep anybody from getting hurt, he was going to have to wait for the perfect moment, then strike like lightning. It would be a close thing.

But first things first. He pulled back into himself and turned to his compatriots to ensure they were positioned and ready. After gently nudging Jen's arm, she shifted slightly to allow him to slide by and crouch down next to the micronations.

"Hey," he started in a soft, soothing voice, "I know you don't want to be here, but this will all be over soon. What I need for you to do is stay exactly where you are. I want you to close your eyes, cover your ears, and wait for Miss Jennifer or Seborga to come get you. Also, find a little tune to hum to yourself; it will block out all the noise."

"What if something goes wrong?" Wy whispered worriedly.

"If something goes wrong, which it won't, but if it does you go with Nick. You stay with him no matter what, you do exactly what he says, and you run."

Alfred looked over at Molossia to see if he had heard these instructions. Nick met his gaze and gave a quick, sharp nod.

"Alright, munchkins," Alfred said turning back to the micronations, "time to start humming."

The micronations all complied immediately with hands over their ears, closed eyes, and soft melodies floating up to Alfred's ears. He smiled slightly.

The smile vanished as he moved back towards the door that would give him access to the hostages and their captors. When he spoke, his voice was hard as steel, "We move on my signal."

* * *

Patty sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, instinctively trying to make herself look as small as possible. Her eyes burned with unshed tears - how had everything gone to hell so quickly? The interview with the foreign officials had been going so well. And then the alarm and the smoke and she'd passed out . . . when she came to, it was a living nightmare.

None of it made sense. The nonsensical demands the terrorists made to the cops just seemed to be a waste of time. Shouldn't they be demanding money or the release of prisoners or something? That's what terrorists did when they took hostages, right?

Suddenly terror flooded her when the Frenchman grabbed her roughly by the hair and began dragging her towards the center of the room.

"What, no wait," she cried in unadulterated panic. The tears finally came spilling down her cheeks, her strong veneer vanishing in the face of almost certain death. "No, please, please, I'm sorry, I didn't do anything-"

The Frenchman backhanded her roughly. "Shut up. You are correct, this has nothing to do with you. You are, indeed, simply a means to an end. That said, I had hoped it would not come to this. I am truly sorry, but this must be done; it is the only way to make them listen. There is no point in making this any more difficult than it has to be; do yourself the favor of dying with some dignity. Forgive me - for the fate of the world and all her peoples are at stake."

Patty sobbed quietly as the Frenchman raised his gun aiming directly for her head.

* * *

The report of gunfire was loud in the relatively small space the hostages inhabited.

The Frenchman fell to floor with a scream, grabbing at his leg, crimson leaking out around his fingers. Several shots followed in rapid succession.

THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD

Bodies hit the floor.

Threats neutralized.

The room was eerily silent.

Alfred loomed tall, just inside the entrance, small wisps of smoke traveling up and away from the tip of his barrel. He stalked toward the Frenchman radiating malice, death seeming to follow in the wake of his fury. Reaching him in a few short strides, he quickly relieved the man writhing on the floor of his weapon. Lifting his foot, he placed it down over the bullet wound in the Frenchman's leg, then, catching the former hostage taker's eye, he pressed down slowly, ever so slowly, until finally he elicited an agonized scream from the terrorist.

Satisfied, Alfred let up, and crouched down, so his face was inches from the Frenchman's, eyes burning with righteous fury.

"We don't hit women."

* * *

As Canada carefully eased open the door to the roof, Kumajiro slid through the crack and scurried to the raised lip of the roof. After slowly easing himself up so he could peek over the edge, he dropped back down and waved a paw. "All clear," the bear hissed.

Dropping to his stomach, Canada quickly scrambled through the door and crawled around the small telescope tower in the middle of the roof and disappeared from view. He could just make out the soft click as Prussia pulled the door shut once again. Heart pounding, he slouched against the metal tower and waited for Kuma to signal Prussia to move.

After several long, nerve-wracking moments, Kuma repeated his call and Prussia hurried through the door, pulling it shut behind him before he followed Canada's path around the structure.

Tony had identified a building near the block the terrorists had claimed that offered decent line-of-sight on the enemy snipers. The enemy had placed explosive charges inside the building's basement, no doubt ready to blow the towering hall at the first sign of activity within or around the structure. Luckily for the two personifications, Prussia was more than a little familiar with explosives and had disarmed the deadly devices with ease. All that was left for them then was to climb up seventeen stories of emergency stairs, find the way to the astronomy tower, climb those stairs, and exit out onto the roof using a door directly facing the enemy snipers.

Canada could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears as Prussia scrambled around the tower to join him. They waited, adrenalin coursing through their veins, for any sign that the enemy snipers had spotted them.

There was only silence.

'Nice to finally have a use for my invisibility trick,' he reflected. He hadn't lacked for love or affection growing up. Even Britain's distaste for France hadn't stopped him from allowing the other nation to visit when he could. But America . . . the southern colonies had been a thorn in Britain's side for a long time. His parent country had ignored the early rumblings of rebellion. He had thought them the grumbling of a handful of dissidents vastly outnumbered by the stoutly loyal British subjects that he represented. Their victory, however, had changed everything. No matter how hard he searched, Canada never found the newborn personification that should have appeared in the new country. And in the face of the growing number of angry and frightened nations demanding he find a solution, Canada learned to fade and disappear, until he could, say, walk through an entire police barricade or cross a rooftop without being noticed or stopped.

After taking a moment to orient himself, Canada straightened and followed the curving tower and straight walls of the adjacent classroom until he found the narrow pathway Tony had identified between the telescope and the building's elevator control house.

Once he reached the shadowy opening, he leaned into it, staring out at the rooftops beyond for several moments before pulling back with a satisfied nod. Their mysterious ally had done an excellent job selecting this building, Canada concluded after a few moments of study.

As Prussia hurried after him, he slid away from the opening so the Germanic personification could take a look of his own.

"You are the expert sniper," Prussia concluded after peering out through the opening with a practiced eye. "How do you wish to proceed?"

Canada hummed for a moment, then swung his backpack off and dropped it on to the roof. He crouched, unzipped his bag, and pulled out the pieces of his new rifle so he could start assembling the weapon. After digging into his own bag, Prussia pulled out the sniper scope and did a new sweep of the area, trying to spot the snipers.

"I see eight snipers," Prussia finally announced as he pulled back from the opening. "It appears there are also four lookouts, one on every other rooftop." Placing the scope on the ground, he started assembling his own weapon. "What in the hell is this?" he snarled. "This is clearly not some random terrorist attack. This is much more-"

"Sinister. Like maybe we, the personifications, are being targeted."

"I hardly think this is the time for 'I told you so'," came Prussia's huffy rejoinder. "Smug bastard."

"Look, we won't know anything for sure until this is all over," Canada retorted. "For now why don't we focus on the task at hand. There are still people in there that need our help." He ran his hands and eyes over the now assembled weapon, double-checking his work. Satisfied, he pulled out the loaded magazines and placed them within reach.

"Do you have any experience spotting?" Canada asked in a hushed tone.

"Yes."

"Ok good. Do you see anything that will help you estimate wind speed?"

"Texas flag on top of a building to the southwest." Prussia rolled his eyes even though Canada was completely absorbed with the task of practicing sighting his first target through the scope. "This will be the first and only time I say this, but, thank goodness for the ridiculous Texan pride. I have never seen so many flags."

"Alright, the plan is this. We're positioned in such a way that the snipers to the south of us won't be able to hit us even if they manage to spot us. So, we start taking out the snipers we have a clear line of sight on first, the ones that could have a clear line of fire on us and be able to fire back."

"To clarify, when we get the signal, we are beginning with the terrorists to our north and working our way back to the south."

"Affirmative."

Kneeling on the rooftop with his rifle held at the ready, Canada offered an earbud to Prussia keeping the one attached to the mic for himself and double-checked that the cord was still connected to his phone. He felt a calm settle over him while they waited for Tony's call - and the signal to get started. It would be soon - he could feel it.

* * *

"Let me be perfectly clear," Jen snarled into the phone, "under NO circumstances are you to attempt a breach of this building! The snipers are still in place, several hostages are missing, and we don't know what other security measures these terrorists have put in place!"

Alfred listened with half an ear as Jen continued to argue with the FBI. It sounded like she was making headway in convincing them they absolutely should not storm the building. It was really a miracle that they hadn't already. Alfred really felt the likelihood that they hadn't heard his flurry of shots was minisculely low and that alone should have sent them running in.

Alfred studied the room. The smaller micronations were yet again huddled in a corner away from everything and everyone. Quickly realizing the reason for this, he also saw that the former hostages stayed close to the walls, some with looks of horror on their face while others kept their gazes purposefully averted.

Seven bodies littered the floor.

"Nick." When Alfred didn't get an immediate response, he looked up and in the direction he thought Molossia should be.

Nick stood in the open space of the room just inside the door, a look of shock dominating his features.

Alfred walked over, quickly at first, but then slowing as he got closer so he wouldn't spook the younger man.

"Hey Nick," still he drew no response. He reached out and tapped the micronation gently on the shoulder.

Molossia's head snapped up, and he locked eyes with America. "You . . .," he faltered, stumbled, started again, "You - you did this . . ." It was part question, part statement as his eyes once again traveled to the dead bodies scattered around the room.

"Nick, look at me." After recapturing Molossia's attention, Alfred continued. "Remember earlier, right before we left the closet, you asked me if I would have really hurt that man, if I really would have used the acid?" Nick nodded. "You were right. I will always do whatever it takes to protect my people. I know I'm new to this Nation-concept, but I do know this: I am nothing without my people. They are the core of my being, my essence. So yes, I did this. And I'd do it again, a thousand times over, whatever it takes. Just like you would, like you should, for your people. Do you understand?" Nick nodded again, looking a little less shell-shocked.

"Now, I need your help moving and covering the bodies. You okay for that?"

"You want me to help?"

"You're the only one I can count on."

"Yeah, yeah, I can help. Tell me what to do."

Alfred and Molossia moved quickly in tandem, as if they'd done this a million times and had it perfectly choreographed, moving the bodies to the far side of the room. Once that had been accomplished, they found some cheap vinyl tablecloths in a nearby breakroom that they used to cover the bodies.

The grisly task complete, Molossia moved to go check on the other micronations while Alfred double-check the bandage he'd tied on the Frenchman's leg to make sure he wouldn't bleed out anytime soon. With the TV studio secured and the terrorists either dead or restrained, and all patrols neutralized, they were in a much stronger position than before. They still didn't know where the other personifications had been taken. How wonderful, then, that he had just the person to tell him everything he needed to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: We had a fair amount of dialog and action to clean up. Lots of clarification and streamlining.


	15. Chapter 15

Alfred looked around the room before addressing the former hostages. "Can anyone tell me where the office of the Head Honcho is?"

Patty spoke up timidly from the floor. "I assist with some of the programming that's broadcasted from here and he, Mr. Pryor, he's in charge and like a super control-freak. His office is right around the corner. He likes to be close to the 'action.'"

"Thank you," Alfred said sincerely. "Jen, I'll be back once I've gotten the information I need."

With that, he hauled the Frenchman to his feet and started pushing him ahead of him towards the office.

"It's on your right," Patty called out from behind.

Without turning around, and keeping his gun trained on the terrorist with one hand, he waved back in acknowledgement with the other.

* * *

**SNAP!SNAP!SNAP!**

The Frenchman screamed and writhed in agony where he sat tied to a chair unable to clutch his now broken and deformed fingers comfortingly to his chest. As he leaned over in excruciating pain, Alfred grabbed the silver letter opener from the desk blotter, jammed it into the gun wound in the terrorist's leg, and twisted.

The Frenchmen howled in pain.

Alfred pulled the letter opener from the terrorist's leg and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor, still covered in rich, red blood.

When the terrorist finally got himself under control, Alfred spoke, "We have been here less than five minutes and you are only beginning to experience the amount of pain that I can cause you. So, let's cut to the chase. I know that the ludicrous demands you've been making are nothing more than a diversionary tactic. I know that you, as all terrorists, are largely self-serving which means you will want to minimize the amount of pain you might suffer at my hands. Tell me what I want to know, tell me now, and this all ends."

"Why would I tell you anything?" The Frenchman spat in contempt, pushing aside the pain wracking his body.

Alfred slowly pulled a large, serrated knife from his belt, studied it briefly, contemplative. Suddenly, he had a hold of the top of the Frenchman's ear with the edge of the blade rested neatly on the crook where the ear met the head as though Alfred meant to take it off. "It's to be pain then?"

"NO!" the Frenchman shouted suddenly.

Alfred paused but did not remove the blade from its precarious position. "Ah, self-serving and vain, I was right. You have 10 seconds to start talking or I proceed with prejudice."

"You should be helping us," the terrorist exclaimed in frustration.

"Why is that?"

"Because you have no idea what you are up against. You have no idea that we are actually doing you a favor. We are helping you. We're not even here for you. You are human. The men we have, they are not what they seem. They are an unending plague on the world, and we may have finally found a way to be rid of them. If we are right, we will kill them all. Then, we will finally be free. Is that not what all Americans want? Freedom?"

It took every ounce of self-control Alfred possessed to continue with this charade, but success here was crucial if he was going to rescue the others, "Of course I want freedom." He feigned skepticism. "What's this great threat you're talking about anyway, this plague? And if it's so dangerous, why haven't I heard about it?"

Sensing that he might be able to turn this American to his side, the Frenchman continued earnestly, "Those diplomats are much more than what they seem. They are what are referred to as 'Nations,' and they control everything that happens on the earth. Economically, Socially, Politically. We are all at their mercy, puppets on a great stage. They do whatever they please while millions, no billions, suffer."

"And you have a way to stop them? How?"

"Yes, this is the part you do not know. They cannot die. This is how they are able to keep their power."

"You just said you could get rid of them and now you tell me they can't die," Alfred interrupted, pressing down on the blade slightly, drawing a small amount of blood.

"We have found a way," the Frenchman shouted.

Again Alfred paused, listening intently.

"This is why we are here. We have a formula, a series of steps, that we believe, if followed properly, will result in the deaths of these creatures. These monsters."

"You believe?" Menace laced Alfred's tone.

"They are testing it now. That's why I was holding the hostages in the TV studio. We plan on broadcasting the solution to the world."

"Where?" Alfred demanded.

"There are tunnels that run underground beneath the university. The others took the Nations to the other building, Biomedical Engineering. There are labs there that are perfect for our purposes. It won't be long now. They may know already, in fact, if it works that is."

This revelation stunned Alfred into silence. One or more of the Nations could already be dead.

The Frenchman misinterpreted the silence of his captor. "So, will you join us?"

Allowing the fury that had been bubbling beneath to finally surface in his eyes, Alfred got right in the terrorist's face and locked gazes with him. "No matter what you believe, killing people is always wrong," he began in a tight, controlled tone that only served to intensify the fury in his eyes. "It is especially wrong when you endanger innocent people in the process. Nobody, nobody, is above the law. Not you or these Nations. And if they are doing the terrible things you claim, there is a court somewhere that can bring them to justice. That being said, I know for a fact, that no Nation would ever do what you claim."

"And how can you know that, when, ten minutes ago, you didn't even know they existed?" The Frenchman sneered.

Alfred's eyes blazed and his face was like chiseled granite, "Because you smug son of a bitch, **I. AM. AMERICA.** "

* * *

Leaving the terrorist bound and bleeding in the office, Alfred hurried over to Patty where she still sat huddled in the middle of the room. "Hey," he started in a gentle voice, wincing internally at how shattered she looked.

She shrank back from him. "Please, I don't know anything, and I'm not a part of any of this, and, and, and you're just supposed to be one of the sound guys, umm, no I didn't mean that you weren't important. You have a name, and I know it, I do, just, umm . . . please, please don't hurt me."

Sadness filled Alfred. "You think I'm going to hurt you?" he whispered. It hurt every time one of his people looked at him this way, their eyes full of fear and pain.

"We heard the screams . . ." she trailed off.

"I'm not going to hurt you Patty. And my name's Alfred. I know you would have remembered if you weren't so upset, so no worries right?" He smiled softly.

Patty relaxed a little.

"You heard screams because that man was going to hurt you, and he and the other men that came here with them are currently hurting the diplomats that were here. Now that I have all the information I needed from him to be able to help save those people, I need your help. Will you help me, Patty?"

* * *

This was crazy. It was all crazy. None of this made any sense and he'd walked in with a gun and taken a bunch of really bad people out, and it sounded like he'd tortured a man, and now he was asking for her help and the craziest part of all was that she was actually thinking of helping him. That was crazy, right . . . she had never answered his question.

She looked into his eyes, trying desperately to figure what the hell was going on and if this was a dream and if it was could she please, please, please wake-up? And all while drowning in the sincerity and concern pouring out of those deep blue eyes. How did you stay sane, how did you form coherent thoughts, make not crazy decisions when you were staring into eyes like that?

So, she wasn't at all surprised, when looking into the sound guy's, Alfred's (he had a name), eyes, she finally answered, "Yes. Yes, I'll help you. What do you need?"

And of course his response had to be the simplest of things, "How do I make a long distance phone call?"

Jen hurried over once Alfred was done speaking with Patty. "The FBI has agreed to stay put for the moment," she informed him in a low voice. She glanced over the former hostages and the micronations. "I'm going to need to stay here, though, to make sure they don't get restless and make a move before we're ready. Did you get the information about the other nations?"

"I did," Alfred replied in a grim voice. "They're in more danger than we thought. The terrorists think they've found a way to permanently kill them, and they were planning to broadcast that information to the entire planet once they knew it worked."

Jen looked at him in horror, hand flying to cover her mouth. "How long do we have?" she whispered through her fingers.

"Not long." Alfred took a deep breath, crossed his arms and began to review the information he'd gotten from the Frenchman and ran through old memories of the underground tunnels connecting many of the buildings on campus. "I can get to them but I'm worried about the snipers," he continued after a moment. He gave her a serious look. "I have a . . . friend . . . who may be able to help deal with them. Assuming he hasn't already started working on that already," he carefully explained. "I need to call him and get the big picture. Then I'm going to rescue the other nations."

"Will you need backup?"

Jen's gaze was sharp, but Alfred could feel how tired she was getting. Alfred shook his head. "No, you need to stay on with the feds and the micronations should stay here. You'll need Seborga and Molossia in case the terrorists try to retake the room."

Jen hesitated. He was right and she knew it . . . but the thought of letting him go off alone . . . NO! How could she do that? He was right there in front of her, the rightful, true representative of America. She had to protect him. He was so much more important than she could ever hope to be. They needed him. Except, hadn't he shown now, again and again, that he was more than capable of taking care of himself? He didn't really need her. In fact, if she were to go with him she'd probably just slow him down . . . get in the way. Wasn't he the one that had been taking care them now for the past few hours? As she felt her thoughts spinning out-of-control and away from her, she took a few steadying breaths.

As Jen continued to hesitate, Alfred reached out to gently grasp her shoulders and let his eyes wander over to the micronations before speaking. "They need you Jen. More than I do. And I need you here. You're the only one who can keep the feds in check. If they storm this building, it all goes to hell. This is where you are needed."

"What about you?" She implored.

He smiled, just the right amount of cocky mixed with reassuring. "I'm going to go kick some terrorist ass, generally save the day in an outrageous fashion, I'm going to return triumphant with the others, and then we're going to walk out of here and get on with the rest of our lives." And when he saw her hesitation linger he added softly, "I'll be fine. I promise. After all," he winked, "I am clearly the hero here."

Jen, realizing she hadn't seen him break a promise yet, not to herself, the micronations, or any of the terrorist he'd threatened today finally replied, "Then I'll be right here waiting. And if you're not okay, you'll be the one getting your ass kicked."

After giving Jen's shoulders a final reassuring squeeze, Alfred retreated to the nearest office with a phone, where he quickly dialed the long-distance code and accompanying number. It only rang once before being picked up. "Tony? It's me, I'm okay. I'm guessing you know about the shit going down here-"

Alfred jerked the phone away as Tony let out a long stream of curse words. " _Jeez Tony_ , I told you, I'm _fine_ ," he insisted once he could bring the phone back to his ear. A content smile crossed his face at the alien's over-protectiveness. He let out a long sigh of relief. It was comforting to talk to an old friend, the one other person in the world that really knew him and was ready to stand by his side. He shifted so he could sit on the desk.

Alfred let the comforting thoughts slip away taking the solace they brought with them. He quickly got back to the business at hand. "The terrorists have split up. I've taken out the guys guarding one group of hostages but the others are in a different building and it'll be a lot harder to rescue them with the snipers in place." He paused, then snickered. "Oh, really? Awesome, can you get this guy on the phone? If he can start taking out the snipers while I move on the last hostage group, we just might be able to pull this off."

* * *

Canada and Prussia had settled in behind the rooftop classroom, stretching out to rest before the pending fight. Unlike other roofs they'd been on in years (and wars) past, this one was fairly free of irritating dust and sharp gravel.

Canada's phone vibrated.

His thumb made a quick, decisive swipe across the screen. "Williams," he answered.

"Got some good news for ya," came Tony's strange high-pitched voice over the open line. Prussia's hand flew up to double-check the earbud Canada had given him. "My guy's made some damn good progress inside and managed to get his hands on a phone. I'm gonna threeway this shit so we can plot out how to kill the last of these pricks."

"Sounds great," Canada breathed. He waited, tense as he listened to the sound of fumbling and rustling on the other end.

_"Hey, you there?"_

"This is Matthew, he and his pal Gil are the snipers I told you about," Tony replied. "Williams," he continued, an odd note in his voice, "this is Alfred. He's my guy inside."

"Nice to meet you, so to speak," Canada responded. He could feel his muscles relaxing - just hearing Alfred's voice was incredibly comforting.

 _"Dude, likewise. I cannot BEGIN to tell you how glad I am you're out there,"_ Alfred began.

Prussia nudged Canada's side. "This guy sounds a lot like you," he commented, voice just loud enough to be picked up by the mic. "Only more . . . American."

"Hush," Canada hissed, knocking his companion's elbow away with a shove of his own. "Sorry about that," he apologized.

" _God, you are so Canadian_." Alfred laughed, a bright sound with a sharp, almost brittle edge. " _Anyways, here's the sitrep. The terrorists split themselves into four groups. Group One was negotiating with the police in the Jones building with one set of hostages, Group Two was patrolling the corridors, Group Three is on the roof, and Group Four has moved to the Biomedical Engineering building with a second group of hostages using the old tunnel system. I've neutralized Groups One and Two. I have people on the phone with the feds talking them out of storming the building. As far as I can tell, Groups Three and Four are unaware of what's happened so far_."

"So, if Gil and I can take out Group Three while you hit Group Four, we should be able to take them by surprise," Canada concluded as Alfred paused his report, already seeing the shape of the American's plan.

" _Exactly_."

"What's the status of the hostages you've freed? Any fatalities?" came Canada's concerned query, as he mentally crossed his fingers.

" _It was a close thing, but I managed to stop the terrorist from harming any of the first group of hostages. I also picked up a few kids and a woman along the way. Found them in a storage closet while I was still in the early stages of a barely formed plan. The kids will be staying here as well as the woman when I go to free the others. I've made sure they're armed and a few of them are even comfortable with weapons so they should be safe_."

Canada's breath caught. Sealand and the other micronations - he'd completely forgotten about them. "Any ID on the freed hostages?" he asked, voice hopeful.

" _Affiliates of the University, plus the kids and the woman who were locked away with them_." Alfred hesitated for a moment. " _The remaining hostages are foreign officials. We aren't going to have a lot of time to free them before the feds insist on moving in and . . . I have concerns that it will get messy. I really think we can take care of this ourselves if we move fast. The terrorists . . ._ "

Alfred hesitated, silently struggling with how much to divulge to the stranger on the other end of the phone. His gut said to spill everything - this guy was safe - but he didn't know that for certain. Couldn't know that for certain. He trusted Tony to have found someone who could help with the snipers, but beyond that . . . No, it was enough that Jen knew who he was, what he was. Besides, the truth sounded insane and he needed this guy to trust him.

" _This terrorist group is messed up_ ," he finally continued. " _It's made up of people from all over the world. No apparent ties or similarities to other active groups. Seem to have some sort of idea that killing the hostages will gain them . . . something? I don't know, like I said, messed up_."

Canada shoved the Germanic nation out of his personal space, but placed a comforting hand on his chest when Prussia made a move to reclaim his place. "Which building is Bio-engineering?" he demanded.

" _You know where the Jesse H. Jones Communication Building is_?" Alfred continued after Canada's quick affirmative reply. " _Go east two blocks from there. It takes up the entire block_."

"Right in front of us," Canada realized. He ran through the sitrep Alfred had given them. "You'll be approaching the building through tunnels?" he asked.

" _Yeah, through the old nuclear fallout system. They were used as maintenance tunnels for a while. They're usually closed off nowadays, but these guys used them to move to the Biomed building, and I should be okay taking the same route_."

"How do you want to coordinate this?" Canada asked. "Do you just want us all to stay on the line or do we want to set up a signal, although that might be hard with you in doors and underground, so- sorry, stupid idea, but what do you want to do?" he asked in a plaintive voice.

" _Give me twenty minutes to get through the tunnels and scout things out_ ," Alfred replied after turning the question over for a few moments. " _Staying on the line won't work. This is a land line, and they're running jammers like crazy, not that I think I'd get a signal underground if they weren't. So, yeah, twenty minutes from when we end this call, you start taking the bastards out. Hopefully, at the end of it all, we come out on top_."

Canada hesitated, then blurted out, "Just be careful, okay?" Prussia gave him an odd look and the Great White North could feel a blush spreading across his face. "I, uh, think I'm supposed to offer to buy you a drink after all this is over," he stammered. He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to bang his head against the concrete roof. Why had he said that?

Alfred was taken aback, both by the concern and the offer of a drink. " _The concern is sweet and all, but I really don't swing that way, friend,_ " he joked, trying to getting them all to relax just a little and give himself some equilibrium back.

Canada was mortified. "No, that's not, I just, umm . . ."

" _Dude, chill out. I was just messing with you. Trying to lighten the mood a little. Anyway, look at it this way: you'll know I was careful because I'll be able to take you up on that drink offer. Deal?_ "

"Deal," Canada replied, relieved to hear the humor in the American's voice.

" _Cool. Alright, well then, let the countdown begin._ "

And with that, Alfred was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: Lots of clean-up in the section. We fixed a lot of prepositions, weird sentenses, and missing plural words. Lots of problematic dialog, too. This is much better!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We didn't mean to have such along delay between updates! It took a little longer to recover from the holidays than we originally planned. We're back to banking edited chapters, though, so we're back on track for the last few chapters.

It had been decades since Alfred had last passed through these tunnels. During the Great Depression, he’d ended up wandering from state to state, desperate to find a way to help the countless suffering people while simultaneously struggling to overcome the weakness that had overtaken him following the market crash.

Halfway through the 1930s, he’d ended up in Texas, miserable and aching all over. He’d had a vague idea of enrolling in the local university, adding another useless degree to his collection and distracting himself from the malaise he’d sunk into. And in the end, he did spend the next several years in Austin -- as a member of the crew working under Professor Carl Eckhardt to dig a long series of tunnels beneath the young school.

Now, gun held comfortably in his hands, he stalked the tunnels yet again. The right side of the passage was filled with large, dusty pipes and another ran along the ceiling, occasionally marked with bright yellow “Acid Waste” signs. The air was humid and filled with a soft, steady drone, broken only by random creaks as the steam-filled pipes continued their tireless work.

Sticking close to the left side of the tunnel, Alfred maintained a steady pace, the dark, poisonous presence of the remaining terrorists drew him closer, guided him steadily forward.

* * *

China, France, Italy, and Japan were the very picture of agony. The poison pumping through their veins had drained all their strength, leaving them gasping for breath. Painful muscle spasms wracked their otherwise limp frames, sweat dripping down their tormented faces.

England’s attention was drawn away from his companions when the door that connected to the observation room opened and in filed four terrorists wheeling in gas tanks with breathing masks. Something told him those tanks weren’t filled with oxygen. “What are those for?” he croaked. He tried to sound demanding, but he had lost too much blood. His voice was weak.

The Nigerian raised a condescending eyebrow over hate-filled eyes, and when he spoke, his authoritative voice rang with power, “You think you have the right to question anything that happens here?”

“You never said I didn’t,” England replied snarkily.

The Nigerian crossed the room swiftly, a crazed look in his eye as he removed his knife from its sheath and plunged it down into England’s shoulder. His pain filled scream echoed around the room, in his own ears, in the ears of his suffering colleagues. The echoes bounced, reverberated, and filtered out beyond them. Then silence. England’s breathing was labored as he fought to control this new misery.

“I. Am In. CONTROL!” the Nigerian screamed. He twisted the blade slightly, the gratification he got from watching England writhe in pain shining brightly in his eyes before he regained control of himself.

“Your ignorance makes you arrogant,” he snarled. “This is easily corrected. What you see before you are four canisters of helium. The cortisol that is now coursing through their veins should have weakened their system enough by now for us to move to the final stage. The breathing masks will be attached and the helium pumped through. In small amounts, breathing in helium is harmless, as I’m sure you know. However, prolonged oxygen deprivation ultimately leads to brain death, as the brain must get oxygen to live. At the point of complete brain death there is no longer a central nervous center to send commands to the body; nothing left to send signals telling the body to heal itself. If all that was too difficult for you to follow, allow me to simplify:

“No more oxygen, no more healing, No. More. Nations.”

England’s head swam at the possibilities, the Nigerian’s words repeating themselves over and over. Was it possible that he was really about to witness the death of another nation? Was it possible in the next hour they would all be dead? If they died would new personifications appear to replace them? Did a nation have to have a personification as long as that nation existed or would there only ever be one? Was it possible that his kind was about the be on the verge of extinction? Was it possible to have a world with no personifications?

Just as it seemed he was about to get carried away with his own thoughts, England drew his focus forcefully back into the present.

“Then not only are you a bastard, but you’re also an idiot.” He glared up at their captor. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to start with us? As weakened as they may be, aren’t we much more so? Good God man, think. You hook us three up to those damn canisters, and we’ll be dead that much faster.”

“And what makes you think I am at all interested in killing you quickly?” The terrorist smiled. “No, I will enjoy watching your death broadcast to the world. They will see you at your weakest, most humiliated, most defeated right before I personally end your existence. But first, you will watch these die before you, knowing their fate will soon be your own.”

The Nigerian looked at the other terrorists. “Hook them up to the helium,” he ordered. “ It’s almost time to reveal ourselves to the world. We must be sure this works.”

England watched as the other terrorists followed the Nigerian’s instructions. And for the first time in the last two hours, he strained with all his might against his bonds; he watched impotently as, with each passing second, with each labored breath, the other nations’ oxygen was replaced with life-stealing helium.

Suddenly blinding pain permeated his entire being. Liquid warmth seeped down his arm and bare chest. When the pain subsided enough for him to focus, he saw the Nigerian had a blood coated knife held in his hand, the knife that had just been ripped from his body. Then, the terrorist shifted and, with one swift, precise motion, sliced the side of Japan’s neck causing the small nation to gasp in pain; the blood flowed freely.

“Why the hell would you do that?” England shouted, his rage giving him strength. “What the fuck was the purpose?”

The Nigerian glanced at him and smirked.

“Blood is the medium by which the body carries oxygen to the brain. It is possible that by draining the body of blood we may speed up the process of brain death.”

“You just said you weren’t interested in killing us quickly, you fucking bastard.” England’s voice shook. In all the centuries of his long life, he’d never felt so thoroughly helpless, so useless, before.

“You have misunderstood, it is you and your other two companions who sit bound and bleeding whose suffering I am interested in prolonging. You are my revenge, the only chance I will have to ensure you suffer the way all the people that have ever been subject to your control and machinations have suffered.” He gestured with his free hand at the other Nations. “But the rest of you, you are a menace, a plague upon the face of this earth, and the faster we can kill you . . . the better!”

With that, the Nigerian left the room, the Asian Nation’s blood trailing off the tip of the knife blade in his wake.

* * *

Peering between the pipes, Alfred could see a single guard standing in front of the door separating him from the captured nations. He shifted slightly back and forth, trying to peer past the doorway and into the space beyond.

A tortured scream suddenly ripped through the air.

The sound jolted Alfred into motion. Casting stealth aside, he sprinted around the pipes straight for the guard, who had turned to look towards the pain-filled echoes. Before the guard could turn back, Alfred lunged forward and seized him, executed a flawless take-down, and snapped his neck with a swift twist.

Alfred quickly carried the limp body back down the tunnel and out of sight. He picked up the pistol the guard had been carrying, taking a moment to check the chamber and the clip and making note of the silencer attached to the end of the weapon.

Tucking the extra weapon into his waistband, he turned to face the door. He was ready.

* * *

Biting back a curse, Canada rolled onto his stomach, seized his rifle, and army crawled across the roof over to the narrow opening between the classroom and the elevator housing. Prussia started, then hurried to follow suit.

“What the hell,” the Germanic nation hissed as he knelt next to Canada, “There are still ten minutes!”

“No, we start now,” Canada snarled. He stretched out on the roof, rifle muzzle peeking out in front of him. His blood pounded in his ears, adrenalin singing through his veins. He couldn’t explain why, but he just knew that Alfred’s assault was kicking off early. They had to take the snipers out now.

“Gottverdamnt,” Prussia muttered then quickly fell into the rhythm of spotting. Check wind speed, account for humidity and distance. Prioritize target, calculate trajectory, call scope adjustments, confirm, fire. Next.

It was the mathematics of death, and he was very good at it.

The AR-15 thundered, the loud booming sound shattering the uneasy quiet. The sulphurous scent of gunpowder filled the air. Seven left.

With Prussia’s guidance, Canada lined up his next target and fired again. Another fell. Six.

Neither nation flinched as a bullet impacted the building next to them.

Sight. Fire. Five left.

More gunfire came their way - the enemy snipers were starting to hone in on them.

Find the enemy. Fire. Watch him fall. Four left. England and France were counting on him.

The spotters were picking up the weapons of the fallen snipers. Canada pushed away the fear that always accompanied combat. Increase enemy count back to eight. Just keep shooting.

Canada followed Prussia’s instructions, moving from target to target, always focused on the biggest threat. Ignore the rage pushing at him from outside, just shoot, ignore the whimpers coming from Kumajiro huddled nearby or from Gilbird as he burrowed into the polar bear’s chest, take out the enemy, HOW DARE THEY, he wasn’t going to let them hurt ANYONE EVER AGAIN.

* * *

Alfred glided soundlessly through the heavy metal door into the hallway, visiting a swift and silent death on both guards posted there. He moved quickly over to the closest of the two doors he saw immediately before him and listened intently. Once he had positively identified Arthur’s voice, it took all his self-control to wait. But wait he did. There was no room for error here. He only got one chance, one opportunity. The timing had to be perfect.

He peered cautiously through the window in the door, then pulled back quickly. One look gave him the layout of the room and the location of everyone in it; it was all he needed. He listened closely, then, when he heard the man with the knife move to the other room, he drew the silenced pistol from his waist and moved.

Alfred swept into the room dropping each of the terrorist one by one. The successive suppressed muzzle reports the only indication that something was wrong, but none of which could be heard through the old, thick walls or the reinforced viewing glass. He moved with the speed, control, and silence of a jaguar, his aim unerring.

Once the room was clear, he hurried over to the door connecting the two rooms, stepping over dead and dying bodies, following after the man with the knife.

Peeking quickly through the door, he saw the Nigerian speaking on a satellite phone with his back towards the door. Not wanting to risk damage to the phone on the chance it might be his only way to make contact and get himself, and everybody else, out of here, Alfred holstered his weapon smoothly and quietly pushed the door open, breaking into a silent sprint towards the Nigerian. He was upon him before his target had any change to recognize anything was amiss. And instantly, he knew nothing at all as Alfred twisted his hands forcefully, snapping the Nigerian’s neck in one smooth motion.

Flinging the body to one side, he bent down and picked up the fallen Sat phone and put it to his ear. “Who the hell is this?” he demanded.

“Only a voice that you will never hear again.” The line went dead.

Alfred glared with pure hatred at the phone. “You’ll hear mine,” he vowed with menace before pocketing the phone. He shook himself and quickly moved back into the other room to help the bound personifications. His hands made quick work of the bonds restraining Braginski, Beilschmidt, and Arthur. Skirting past them, he scrambled to turn off the flow of helium from the tanks standing in the center of the room, cranking the valve until the _hisss_ of flowing gas ceased.

“The IVs.”

Alfred spun around, astonished at hearing Arthur’s voice. The bloodied nation gave him a weak look, barely able to keep himself upright in the dirty metal chair.

“The IVs, you have to take them out. They’re killing them,” the island nation explained in a raspy, urgent voice.

Alfred turned back to the unconscious nations, first ripping out the IVs before cutting the restraints that held them, then laying them on the floor and tilting their heads back to open up their airways. Wang, Bonnefoy, and Vargas, while unconscious, were all still breathing, though just barely.

When he reached the final nation, Honda, Alfred faltered. The nation slumped motionless in the chair, drenched in blood; the bright red liquid still trickled intermittently out of the neck wound.

Was it even possible for this man to still be alive? He reached for a pulse, but discerned none. Ripping out the IV first, he quickly stripped out of his outer shirt and wrapped it tightly around the neck wound in a pitiful attempt to stop the bleeding. Then, seeing that Honda was no longer breathing, he laid the personification flat with his head elevated on a piece of debris and started chest compressions.

Upon observing the new-comers actions, England spoke up, “You shouldn’t be doing that,” he rasped. “You’ll only pump out the blood faster.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not going to sit here and do nothing. Besides, if his heart stops, he’s dead anyways” Alfred sniped back testily, continuing in his task, no matter how futile.

He paused fleetingly after completing a round of chest compressions to throw the Sat phone at Braginski. “Call for help. We need medical assistance now. Tell them we’re below the Biomedical Engineering building, and we have a non-responsive diplomat with no pulse and a bleeding neck wound.”

Alfred continued his relentless cycle of chest compressions.

* * *

By the time the paramedics arrived it had been seven minutes . . . and Japan’s heart still had yet to beat.


	17. Chapter 17

The visually-maddening sea of emergency lights could only have been more dramatic if it had been dusk. Blue, red, orange, and white lights spun and flashed from every angle while FBI, fire fighters, SWAT teams, and paramedics continued to work the scene. Nearby, police van after police van pulled up, loading the bagged bodies of the dead terrorists on board before pulling out, making room for the next vehicle ready to receive its morbid load.

Gripping Kumajiro tight, Canada quickly wove his way past police and federal agents, relying on his invisibility to once again get him where he needed to go. As the last terrorist spotter had fallen, he and Prussia had hurried to clear the rooftop, gathering up ammo casings and breaking down their weapons so they could disappear once more into their backpacks. Once they’d made it back to ground level and gotten past the police swarming the area, Canada had passed his bag to Prussia so the Germanic nation could take the weapons back to the gun store. It was one thing to sneak the deadly weapons through a police line. It was entirely different, and far more dangerous, to try and carry them into the middle of an active crime scene.

‘Once I know France and England are safe,’ Canada silently concluded, ‘I am going to feel so guilty making Prussia wait to see Germany.’ It couldn’t be helped. The guns needed to be returned and someone needed to check in on the captured nations. This was simply the easiest and fastest way to accomplish both goals.

After skirting a pair of large fire trucks blocking traffic near the Biomedical building, Canada’s eyes darted from one side of the busy crowd to the other; he hesitated, uncertain where to go next.

“Ca- I mean, Matthew!”

A hand jerked on his hoodie, nearly toppling him over in surprise. Kumajiro let out an alarmed squeak as the world tilted. Gasping as he struggled to get his feet back underneath him, Canada looked down and found a familiar pair of eyes staring up at him from underneath thick, bushy brows.

“Peter, are you alright? I’m so glad to see you!” He dropped to his knees and wrapped an arm around the small micronation, unexpected relief sweeping through him at the feeling of that small body hugging him back.

“I’m fine,” Sealand reassured the older nation. “And so are the others!” With a wide grin, he grabbed Canada’s hand and tugged him towards one of the fire engines. Canada stumbled to his feet and looked up, feeling the tight knot in his stomach loosen somewhat as his eyes drank in the sight of the other micronations and the American delegate sitting unharmed on one of the steps of the large red truck.

Ms. Williams gave him a thoughtful look, the hand that had been combing through Wy’s hair pausing briefly as she looked at him. “Canada,” she murmured once Sealand had pulled him in range.

“Ms. Williams, I’m . . . very relieved to see all of you safe.” Damn this was awkward, Canada realized as he struggled to find more to say. He’d been so sad to see her predecessor leave. They’d worked together for so many years . . . but Dan wasn’t here now. “Alfred told me about what was going on inside,” he finally added.

“So _you_ were the sniper,” Ms. Williams realized. She gave him a long, considering look. “How much did Alfred tell you?” she asked in an assessing tone of voice.

“Um, he went through everything kinda fast,” Canada replied in a slow voice. She’d never looked at him like this, like she was comparing him to something. He glanced at the micronations, then did a double-take when he noticed they were giving him similarly evaluating looks. “Have they brought anyone out yet?” he asked, starting to feel decidedly uncomfortable with the intensity of the gazes being leveled at him.

“Not yet.” Ms. Williams turned that piercing gaze towards the nearby entrance to the Biomedical building and scowled. “I could barely get the _idiots_ running this mess to allow us to stay. They’ve refused to give me any informa- There!” She surged to her feet, absently hefting Wy up onto her hip.

Canada spun, then gasped as he saw two gurneys quickly rolling out of the building, surrounded by paramedics. Shoving Kumajiro at the micronations, he dashed forward. “Keep an eye on Kumajiro,” he called out and disappeared into the crowd, running to catch up to the gurney now being loaded into an ambulance.

A hint of panic hit him once he reached the ambulance and found its doors about to close. Without thinking, he reached out, grappled briefly with the paramedic pulling the doors closed, threw him to the ground, jumped into the emergency vehicle, and slammed the doors shut. “Go!” he yelled and the vehicle began to move.

‘I just sorta hijacked an ambulance,’ he realized. Cringing slightly, Canada slowly turned to face the ambulance’s inhabitants. The paramedic, he discovered, was busy looking after a broken and bleeding Japan. And the other patient--

“Dude, you hijacked my face.”

Canada panicked briefly when he heard “hijacked,” but once the statement fully processed he relaxed a little. That voice, the voice from the phone, Alfred, a tentative smile touched his face. “Why isn’t it you that stole _my_ face?”

“Clearly I’m slightly better looking and copies are never as good as the original.” White teeth flashed in a bright Hollywood smile, all cheer and unmitigated confidence.

Canada laughed and relaxed fully. _This_ . . . this was how things were supposed to be--

Wait. How did he know that? What did that even mean? He barely knew this person. They had just met. But still, he couldn’t shake how right that brief exchange felt.

“So you were my sniper on the roof?”

Canada blinked, confused, “Yeah, how did you know?”

At this confirmation, the paramedic looked up in alarm which quickly grew when he realized his partner was no longer in the back of the ambulance with them and had clearly been replaced by this stranger.

“Oh, it’s okay, “ Canada was quick to respond to the paramedic, “I don’t even have the gun anymore.” There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice as the northern nation struggled to find a way to seem less threatening.

“That wasn’t nearly as reassuring as you intended it to be,” Alfred commented while looking at the clearly panicking medic. “Hey, focus on your patient and everything will be fine.” The medics head whipped to look at Alfred, who flashed his Hollywood smile again. “Your patient. He needs you,” he repeated. “Everything’s okay.”

Canada watched in awe. He marveled at the way Alfred’s voice changed, taking on an almost hypnotic quality that seemed to have an instant and soothing effect on the paramedic. He’d never seen another Nation have such an intense connection to his citizens. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘we may have finally found America, but I don’t think he’s going to be what anybody was expecting.’

‘America . . . America . . . AMERICA! Holy crap, he was in an ambulance with America! And America looked like him . . . or he looked like America. What the hell did that mean? Why did he look like America? Or . . .’ No, he wasn’t going to keep doing the back and forth. They looked alike and it was freaky and it had to mean something--

“--thew. Hey, Matthew, dude, are you okay?”

“Huh?”

“You have to relax, Matthew.”

“How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That I have to relax?”

“I . . . ”

Alfred gasped, a memory overtaking him. One short flash, but crystal clear and undeniable. A little boy, his brother, who looked just like him, and then was gone. “Taken” Mama had said, but gone none the less.

“Holy shit,” Alfred breathed. “You’re my brother.” Cornflower blue eye locked with brilliant purple and time stood still. A small gasp from Matthew said he remembered. What he had remembered Alfred didn’t know, but the truth hung there between them suspended, suspending, arresting time and stretching the moment into eternity--

The ambulance jerked to a halt, the doors swung open, and Matthew was pushed unceremoniously aside as both Japan and America were swarmed with medical personnel and whisked away into the hospital. In their wake, two men in suits appeared at the back of the ambulance.

The one with dark hair addressed Matthew. “Sir, you need to come with us.”

* * *

“And you’re sure you don’t feel dizzy or lightheaded in any way,” the nurse, Terri, asked for what seemed like the millionth time.

Alfred, realizing he couldn’t deal with this anymore, snapped back at her. “I’m fine. I don’t need a cookie or juice or anything else. You’ve bandaged me and checked my vital signs far more than was necessary. I’ve been stable from the moment they brought me in here with Mr. Honda. They only brought me in here as a precaution.” With a quiet huff, he folded his arms, looking as intimidating as possible sitting on a paper-covered emergency room table.

“Sir, I am just trying to do my job, and this would go much better if you would adjust your attitude,” she  
replied with equal force, not at all phased by Alfred’s fowl mood.

Bringing his hands up to rub his eyes, Alfred took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It wasn’t fair to take his frustrations out on a nurse. It wasn’t her fault that he was currently coming down off an adrenaline rush. It also wasn’t her fault that he’d had one hell of a shitty day. Taking another deep breath, he quickly ran his hands through his hair in an anxious gesture before responding in a calmer tone. “You’re right, I’m sorry. May I go now? Please?”

He really wanted to be more sincere with his apology and congenial with his request, but he’d had just about enough of this tiny curtained off area. He could only assume they’d rushed Japan to the trauma unit while he had been left behind to get “checked out.” And he’d stayed and cooperated, but now he wanted to get back to the others, to Matthew and Jen and the kids. He wanted to leave, and he wanted to leave now.

Looking up, he saw that Nurse Terri was regarding him skeptically.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Alfred started hopefully, “I’m going to stand up, all on my own, and I’m going to walk to the exit. If, between here and there, I waver, falter, stumble, or just plain pass out, I’ll stay here without protest until you clear me to leave. But if I make it, you let me walk through those doors.” For good measure, he gave her his best hopeful puppy-dog eyes.

For a few moments, he didn’t think it was going to work, but then he watched as her resolve crumbled before his eyes. “Fine,” she relented. “I think you’re rushing things, but if you can manage it, I’ll let you go.”

Despite his deep desire to be with the others, Alfred stood slowly to ensure his own stability. Once he had his feet under him, he smiled confidently at Nurse Terri before strolling casually across the room. Reaching the double-hinged doors without a hitch, Alfred turned to give Nurse Terri a final wave before pushing through them with a deep sigh. He immediately looked around the waiting area for a familiar face. After a few moments, he spotted Jen and the micronations across the room near the emergency room entrance. She looked up and spotted him, a look of relief sweeping across her features.

Then, she was gone, his vision obscured by dark suits. He looked into the faces of two very serious looking federal agents. At least, based on the suits, he assumed they were federal agents.

“Sir, you need to come with us, please.”

Alfred could see between the two agents, and Jen, followed by the micronations, were making a beeline towards them.

“If you could wait just a minute--”

“Now, sir.”

Not wanting to get Jen and the others tangled up in whatever it was he had gotten himself into now, he agreed to go. Immediately, Alfred found himself being ushered hurriedly in the opposite direction.

In a matter moments, they were gone.

* * *

“No,  _you_ listen,” Jen snapped, jabbing the agent in the chest with the slim leather case that held her State Department identification. “That man  _saved_ us, and it is the  **official** position of the State Department that he is to be immediately released into the custody of the current representative.  **Me** . So bring him back out this instant!”

The agent cringed, edging back from the emphatic jabs to his chest. When he’d first seen the woman running after the suspect, he’d assumed she was a relative. _Oh God_ , had he been wrong. “Ma’am, it’s nothing _personal_ ,” he interrupted as she paused to take a short breath. “There’s protocol-”

“Fuck protocol!” Jen pushed into the gap the agent was trying to open up between them. “This is not a _routine_ situation. There are matters here that are far, FAR above your clearance level and that man is one of them! Either you release him this instant or God help me, I will get the **President** on the line to explain to you why you are an idiot and that that man you just _dragged_ off is in no **way** a suspect!”

The agent gaped at her, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. After several moments, he finally gave her a jerky nod and scurried away to try and expedite her request.

Jen let out a satisfied sniff, spinning on her heel to march back to the hard plastic chairs and the waiting micronations. After watching Matthew disappear into the ambulance, the ragtag group had commandeered a police vehicle and followed, reaching the hospital soon after the ambulance. And when Alfred had finally emerged, he was immediately dragged off right before their eyes for questioning.

Beyond infuriated and barely able to contain the bellowing rage bubbling up inside her, Jen had her Blackberry out and speed-dialed her boss. She didn’t go into _much_ detail (as she was speaking on an unsecured line) but did convey that the suspect the FBI had just taken into custody needed to be released to her **immediately** and that he was a person of great interest to their **specific** department.

Still too hyped on a fresh adrenaline surge, Jen began to pace back and forth in front of the seated micronations. Sealand, Wy, and Kugelmugel wore wide-eyed expression of pure shock -- in their time together, Jen had never acted in such a ruthless manner. Seborga looked quite amused, leaning back in his seat and stretching long legs out in front of him. And next to him, Molossia held a sleepy Kumajiro in his lap, one arm looped around the polar bear’s middle, the other propped at the elbow on the chair arm and supporting his head.

“If he’s not out here in the next five minutes, I’ll go get him myself,” Jen muttered to herself.

The micronations shrank down in their seats. They really, really hoped America came back soon.

* * *

Alfred was pissed. He’d left with these blockheads in suits to keep the people he cared about out of this mess. And what does he see when he walks in? Matthew. They had  _Matthew_ . His  _brother_ Matthew.  _Oh hell no!_ It was time to create a distraction. But first, he had to get Matt’s attention so he knew the plan.

“Somebody want to tell me what the hell this is all about,” he demanded in a near-bellow. Catching Matthew’s eye he made the subtlest of movements with his head toward the door and then quickly turned his attention to the man he assumed was in charge. He had known how Matthew was feeling when they were in the ambulance together, so hopefully that connection would be enough to convey his message and his intentions.

“Well obviously--”

“There’s nothing obvious about this shit,” Alfred interrupted obnoxiously as he pushed further into the room. The agents drifted towards him . . . and away from the door. Perfect, everything was going according to plan. He continued his loud rant. “All I know is that I am a fucking hero and all that’s happening right now is that I’m being treated with unparalleled and unthinkable levels of disrespect. If you had any idea who I really am--”

“Yes, why don’t we start with that.”

“Who the hell said you could talk?” Alfred stepped into the lead agent’s personal space, their faces inches apart, causing a few of the other agents in the room to reach for their sidearms. “You must be the idiot in charge of this circus. Well, let me tell you something,” he put two fingers firmly in the center of the agent’s chest and pushed, “if you don’t want to find yourself in the unemployment line first thing Monday morning you will let me go _immediately_.”

The lead agent brought his hand up and shoved Alfred backwards. “That is enough! You are not going anywhere. So now let me tell you something, all it takes is me saying the word “terrorist” and you will spend the rest of your natural life--”

The dull, default ringtone of a cell phone floated from the agent’s pocket. He pulled it out and, upon seeing the caller ID, quickly answered the call.

“This is Agent Everson . . . yes sir . . . yes, Mr. President, I understand . . . yes sir, we’re sorry for the mix-up . . . yes sir, thank you, sir.”

After the call terminated, the agent returned his phone to his pocket. There was a long pause.

“It appears,” Everson began, stance rigid and jaw tight, “that you are free to go. On behalf of the Department of Defense, Department of Justice, and the President of the United States . . . I would like to apologize for any inconvenience we’ve caused you.”

Alfred beamed him a thousand-watt smile, “No problem man, it’s cool. So if that’s everything, I think I’ll be on my way. Catch ya on the flip side.” With that, he turned sauntering towards the door.

“Wait,” one of the other agents said in a panic. “where’s the other one?”

“The other one,” Alfred began in a voice that was pure nonchalance tinged with just the right amount of menace, “is a Canadian citizen, a representative of his fine country here to attend the festivities. He is a diplomat that enjoys the full protections afforded him through diplomatic immunity. Simply put, he is well beyond your reach despite the fact that he’s just beyond this door. In short, better luck next time, gents.”

And with a jaunty wave, he walked out.

* * *

Matthew hovered outside the door to the small office the agents had been questioning him in, torn between the urge to make sure America was safe and an equally strong desire to get far away from the federal agents.

Before he could make up his mind, the door swung open and America, his brother, strode out, casting a cheery wave over his shoulder as he did so. Upon seeing him, America cackled and slung an arm over his shoulders and started pulling him down the hallway.

“Aren’t I the best brother ever? I totally distracted those guys for you!” America snickered. “And you, you totally stealthed out of that room! It was so awesome. They didn’t even notice!”

“I’m just glad we’re _both_ out of there,” Canada agreed. Hesitating, he tried to decide if America was going to let him go anytime soon. It was touching that America clearly felt so comfortable with him, but the squeezing that accompanied the arm flung over his shoulders was starting to hurt. “So how did you get out?” he finally asked. Maybe this would distract him?

“Jen musta done something,” America replied.

Canada’s brow furrowed a moment. Jen? “Ms. Williams?” he asked in puzzlement.

“Yeah, Jen! Anyways, the President called. Dude, it was just like in the movies. ‘Sir, yes sir, Mr. President sir’ and bam! I was free to go!”

They turned the corner out into the waiting room and immediately ran straight into Jen.

“Hey whoa,” Alfred said, releasing Canada and grabbing her, keeping her upright. “Going somewhere?”

Jen looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment then looked down. A slight blush spread across her cheeks while she adjusted her clothing. “Just coming to see what was taking so long,” she lied cooly, not about to admit that she was about to come barging in there like a lioness after a missing cub.

Alfred let out a bright laugh, glancing around the waiting room until he spotted the micronations. “Awesome, everyone’s here!” Grabbing Jen and Canada’s hands, he dragged them over to the waiting personifications.

A hint of red touched Molossia cheeks as they approached. Once Canada was in range, he straightened up and hurriedly held Kumajiro out to the other nation. “Take him!” he hissed, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “Be more responsible with you stuff!”

“Oh, thank you for taking care of him.” Canada gratefully scooped up the polar bear and cuddled him close.

“Sit,” Jen ordered, pointing at a set of chairs facing the micronations. “What the hell happened to the two of you?”

Canada replied after settling into a chair, Kumajiro’s familiar warmth snuggled against his chest. “I saw that they were putting some of us in the ambulance. I had to see who it was. I’m sorry I didn’t take time to explain.”

Jen waved a dismissive hand. “That’s perfectly understandable. And you?” she asked, turning to Alfred.

The American personification blinked, then smiled sheepishly. “Oh, uh, I lied?”

* * *

_Earlier_

Paramedics came pouring into the room and hurried to Honda, pushing Alfred aside as they knelt down to get to work, quickly checking vitals and unwrapping Alfred’s makeshift bandage to check the nature of the wound.

Alfred’s breath caught in his throat, panic starting to flood through him. It couldn’t end like this. It couldn’t. He had just met these _others_ , the Nations, but he knew he had to stay with Honda. These paramedics had no idea what they were dealing with.

“I’m his blood type,” Alfred practically shouted, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. He ignored the confused looks Braginski, Beilschmidt, and Kirkland were giving him. Honda needed new blood, Nation blood, if he was to recover and Alfred was the only unpoisoned source around.

The paramedics looked appalled. As the others worked, one hurried over to talk to him. “He’s not breathing, sir, and even though blood is a priority, we aren’t equipped or qualified to handle a transfusion. Hell, I don’t think we’re even _allowed_ to do a field transfusion.”

Scowling, Alfred shook his head. “Even if he was breathing, it wouldn’t matter because he’s lost too much blood and there’s nothing left to carry oxygen to the rest of his body. I know this guy, and I know we have the same blood type. If you want to save his life, you need to do this. You have syringes, you can just draw blood from me and put it in him!”

The paramedic pointed down at the unresponsive nation. “Look at that neck wound! Even if we did as you asked, the blood would just get pumped right back out!”

“Then patch him up, damn it!” He couldn’t suppress a snarl. “Close the wound as best you can and slap a pressure bandage on it! He’s practically dead already, so if we do nothing, he _definitely_ dies. Do you want that? Do you want to be responsible for the death of a foreign diplomat because you were too much of a coward to even try saving his life?”

“And who the hell are you to try and tell me how to do my job?” the paramedic demanded. “How do you even know any of this will work?”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Alfred insisted.

“And if we try and he dies anyway?” the paramedic continued.

“Then at least we tried.”

“And if he lives and it turns out something _did_ go wrong?”

Pressing his lips together, Alfred gave the paramedic a serious look. “I promise you that absolutely **will not** happen. I’ll sign whatever kind of waiver or release or permission form you want, whatever it takes to keep you guys completely in the clear.” He reached out and rested a hand on the paramedic’s shoulder. “But think of this: If he lives . . . you, all of you, become international heroes.”

The paramedic closed his eyes. He couldn’t help but feel as though this guy really knew what he was talking about. He really wanted to believe him. “I can’t believe we’re going to do this,” he muttered. Opening his eyes, he looked down at the other paramedics, seeing the same heartfelt belief in their eyes that he himself felt. “You heard him. Somebody get him prepped and help me get this set up. We’ve got a life to save.”

* * *

“You,” Prussia demanded as he barged into the waiting room and stalked up to the group, “after everything I did to help you today, after I lent you all of my awesome assistance in the heat of battle, after all that, you think you can just leave me behind? Mark my words, I will make a note of this in my diary and it will not soon leave my memory!” He leaned forward, locking eyes with Alfred. “To make me return to that awful place with the simpleton who clearly can’t comprehend my awesomeness, it’s the only explanation for his rudeness in spite of the fact that I was returning his property. And then I make the journey all the way back to where we were supposed to meet and you are gone. And did you bother to tell me where I needed to go? No! Such a slight I cannot withstand--”

“Ummm . . .” Canada tried to cut in, but Alfred spoke up.

“With everything that’s gone on, shouldn’t it have been obvious that we would have been transported to the nearest hospital?” he demanded.

“How dare you insult-” Prussia stopped, looked to his left, and saw Canada holding Kumajiro. He looked back to the man in front of him, quickly noting and categorizing the subtle differences, eyes slowly widening in disbelief. “Was zur Hölle?” he whispered. Obviously, this person was a personification; he could feel him, but-- “Who- Canada, what- I mean . . . heilige Scheiße!” he finally finished, dumbfounded.

“Guess I’m just too much for this guy’s awesomeness,” Alfred said, grinning cheekily at Matthew.

“You take that back this instant!” Prussia recovered like lightening. “Such blasphemies shouldn’t even be uttered. Too much for my awesomeness, what complete and utter nonsense. And you are?”

“Alfred.” He held out his hand for the customary handshake. “Nice to finally meet you. You were the other guy on the phone right? With Matt on the roof?” he added hopefully.

“Yes, Gilbert,” Prussia replied, still staring at the new personification as he absently reached out to accept the handshake. “It is remarkable, the resemblance. But I think you are very different than Matthew. It is already apparent that you are much . . . louder.”

“Pot and kettle much.” Alfred laughed. “Because you didn’t come in here bellowing like a freight train.”

“Quite.”

“So, you just said, or rather ranted, that you were with Matthew all day. You helped him from the beginning?”

“Yes,” Prussia answered, slightly perplexed at the question and the American’s accompanying seriousness.

“Thanks,” Alfred said evenly, holding out his fist, Prussia assumed for a fist bump. He mirrored the gesture and their fists met . . . and that seemed to be the end of it. It was . . . a strange interaction to say the least. America (he _had_ to be America, no other identification fit) was unlike any Nation Prussia had ever encountered. In a way, that made sense, with America being different than any other nation on Earth in its conception and purely Democratic existence. But he looked so much like Canada. It was hard, and disturbing, and unsettling, and he didn’t like it. Casually he moved to be closer to Matthew.

A doctor, followed by an agent, strode towards them. When he reached the group, he addressed Jen. “I understand that you and your group are here with the other diplomats,” he began.

“Yes,” Jen replied quickly.

“If you’ll follow me, I can take you to them now. I must warn you though, some of your friends are still not completely out of the woods yet, and your group has been noted as being rather loud so far. Once you reach the room, disruptive behavior will not be tolerated. The patients need to rest and if your presence is going to hamper that objective you will be removed.”

“Of course, just, please, take us to them.”

The others all stood, ready to get to their family members.

“Right this way.” With that, the doctor turned and lead them into the depths of the hospital.

Everyone followed quietly as they moved further into the center of the hospital. When they all piled into an elevator that then descended below ground level, tensions mounted, their anxiety becoming palpable. As they traversed dim basement hallways, they drifted together, the smaller micronations slowly linking hands, Molossia finding America, America and Prussia unconsciously flanking Canada, Jen leading.

The doctor finally stopped in front of a door. “Here we are.”

They all glanced at each other. Whatever lay behind the door, they would face it together. Jen nodded to the doctor who opened the door.

Silently, they filed into the room, the door closing softly behind them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the chapter from hell. 
> 
> Comments below will describe just how much work this story took to get it to publication quality.
> 
> Enjoy!

The battered and healing bodies of the now freed nations lay in beds on either side of what appeared to be a hastily converted supply room. It was larger than a typical hospital room, fitting eight regular sized beds, and there were no rods hanging from the ceiling that curtains would have typically hung from to allow each occupant a modicum of privacy. Large lights had been brought in to help illuminate the room and were placed centrally along each wall, but the corners remained shrouded in shadows. Doctors and a few nurses moved about checking on patients and monitoring vital signs.

Alfred swept critical eyes across the room as he studied the space. It was the perfect space for keeping the Nations safe, he concluded. The secluded location would make it easier for doctors and nurses to spot anyone who shouldn't be there and posting guards inside the room ensured that it remained inconspicuous. As for the foot traffic, well, there was nothing unusual about hospital workers going in and out of a supply room at regular intervals.

And, he needed to stop now because this wasn't his job. Forcing himself back into the present, Alfred reminded himself that this wasn't a mission anymore. The terrorists had been neutralized and the other Nations were safe. He'd done his part, now it was time for him to . . . sudden frustration swept through him. Hell, he had no fucking clue what he was supposed to do now.

Upon entering the room, the other nations and micronations had dispersed to check on loved ones and find places to settle in for the wait ahead.

Matthew had hurried to the far end of the room where France and England occupied beds to the left. As Alfred watched him now, expressions of relief and concern tried to simultaneously occupy his face. Relief at seeing them alive and recovering. Concern that, while France was awake and speaking to him, England was not, not to mention the fact that England looked terrible. Canada reached out and gently took England's hand in his, gave it a soft squeeze, and let go before turning his attention to France.

Prussia had crossed the short distance to the two closer beds on the left side of the room moving past Russia to get to Germany. Very briefly, his hands fluttered around Germany as though resisting the urge to adjust and smooth the blankets before falling still at his sides. It was the only gesture that showed concern as Prussia's face showed nothing more than it's regular fierce determination.

The closest bed to the door on the right, which had been empty, had quickly been claimed by the small micronations. Seborga had been the first to make a beeline for the bed as it stood right next to Italy's. The other micronations, used to sticking together after the events of the day, followed suit unquestioningly.

Jen had shifted to the side to speak with the guards that stood next to the door before moving into the room proper to confer with the doctors. No doubt she was gathering information to report to her superiors.

So Alfred remained, standing in front of the room door hugging his arms to his chest. Nowhere to go. Surrounded. Surrounded by other nations, officials, families. He was a Nation, these were his people, and yet he didn't fit. He had no family here.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, there was movement, a fidget. Alfred suddenly realized he was not alone. Molossia hovered next to him, also with nowhere to go. And while neither England or France were family, Canada was.

So, not so alone and not so out of place.

Alfred's silent ruminations were broken when Italy swept up to him, Seborga trailing after while hurriedly reaching out to close the back of the soft, lightly colored hospital gown swimming around the nation's slender body.

"Seborga told me who you are," Italy enthused in a hushed voice as he slid to a stop in front of Alfred. He grinned, white teeth flashing from an olive face and apparently already recovered from the deadly poison that had been pumping through his veins a few hours earlier. "It's so exciting to meet you!" he exclaimed loudly, clapping his hands together as he bounced lightly in place. "I'm so glad you were able to stop those scary guys from earlier!"

The other personification's enthusiasm was contagious and Alfred felt the knots in his stomach loosen. He grinned back at the Italian and clasped a hand to his shoulder in response, leaning in as though preparing to share a closely held secret. "Dude, those guys didn't stand a chance! Not against the U.S. of A! They were totally doomed!

Italy burst out laughing, a wave of relief sweeping through him at America's cheery response. Despite Seborga's positive description of the mysterious nation, seeing him blocking the room's exit with folded arms and a calculating expression on his face had left North Italy fretting that this man would turn out to be frighteningly similar to Russia.

"Italy, stop flashing everyone," a heavily accented voice slurred, interrupting the short conversation. With a happy squeal, Italy spun around and launched himself across the tiled floor, giving Alfred a distressingly up-close and personal view of tan buttocks as he darted over to Germany's side, hospital gown falling open again as he moved.

Prussia scowled and lightly whacked his brother on the shoulder. Germany ignored the unspoken prompting and continued to push himself up onto his arm, a disapproving look on his ashen face.

"Germany, you are awake! That's wonderful! I'm so glad you are alright. I was so frightened because I didn't know what was happening to you or if we would be able to escape and it was so awful! Please don't get captured like that again. I don't want to be left alone . . ." Italy trailed off as he started to sniffle.

"Do not cry," Germany growled to the best of his ability before finally responding to Prussia's urging and laying back down.

Uncertain what to do, Italy settled for patting Germany's shoulder. One of the two nurses moving from bed to bed checking IVs and equipment paused in her current task; with a disapproving look, she marched over to Italy and gently took hold of his arm. "You need to return to your bed," she scolded.

"But I have to be here for Germany . . ." he protested, pulling slightly against her grip.

"Do what she says," Germany insisted.

"But you need me, Germany! We have to stick together!" Italy planted himself as best he could, still unwilling to leave his friend's side. It had been decades since he'd seen Germany looking so pale, so weak. The contrast with his usual vigorous health was distressing and, just this once, Italy knew he needed to be strong so he could help Germany.

"And what about the others," Germany retorted, a hint of frustration entering his voice. He opened his eyes and looked up at his distressed friend. "They need their rest and you are being very loud. And you need your rest as well," he added.

"You care about me, Italia." Fresh sniffles began to slip out of the Mediterranean nation. "Oh, Germany, you always take such good care of me. And of course we want to help the others get better," he added, nodding vigorously as he reached out to pat Germany's shoulder once more. "You're such a good guy, Germany, so good, always taking care of everybody." With a final pat, he turned to the nurse. "Alright," he declared, raising his chin, "I'll go back to bed now. But only if you promise to take good care of my friend Germany."

"Of course, dear," the nurse replied with determined patience. She quickly herded the Italian back to his bed and settled him amongst the sheets, hooking him back up to the monitoring equipment.

Alfred watched in bemusement as the other nations interacted, wondering what the norm was - the irritation England had expressed the night before at the bar or the obviously tender care that existed between Germany and Italy. Seborga glanced over at him as Italy was put back to rest, flashing a cheery grin as he pulled a chair up next to Italy's bed.

The micronations, he realized, glancing around once more, also seemed far more relaxed than before. Sealand, Kugelmugel, and Wy were now giggling softly as they huddled around Matthew's small white bear, petting the friendly creature who had wandered over in search of entertainment. And Molossia- was still hovering uncertainly beside him. Alfred nudged the lanky teenager's side, leaning in close once the teen turned, startled, to face him.

"Could you pop out to the nurse's station," he murmured, eyes flickering over to the younger looking micronations, "see if they have some coloring books or something they could get for the kids?"

"Sure," Molossia responded after a moment. He hesitated briefly before turning and leaving the room.

As the door clicked shut behind him with a soft snick, America studied the bedridden nations again for a moment. As he watched, the other nurse (Sheila Haskins, he realized) gave Japan a friendly smile as she finished swapping out the spent IV bag for a fresh one.

Alfred began moving toward Japan, stepping past the nurse as she crossed over to check on England. He reached Japan's side moments later feeling lighter at the sight of the recovering patient.

"Hey, glad to see you're feeling better!" Grinning, Alfred thrust his hand out towards the smaller nation. "I'm Alfred, nice to meet you!"

Japan blinked, startled, then awkwardly took Alfred's hand to shake in greeting. The other man immediately reached out to clap his shoulder with his free hand. It was . . . distressing . . . how thoroughly his personal space was being invaded, how overwhelming a personality he could sense in the strange man beaming at him.

"Ah, yes. I am pleased to meet you as well." Japan hesitated for a moment while extracting his hand from the American's firm grip. "One of the nurses told me that you donated blood to help me recover from the poison. Thank you, that was very kind of you," he said in a formal voice, bowing as best he could in the bed to further show his gratitude.

"I'm just glad it worked." Alfred crossed his arms again.

"Yes, but, if I may, who are you exactly?" Japan queried in a hesitant voice.

Just then, one of the doctors walked up, "Sorry to interrupt," he began in a brisk voice, "I just need to do another cognitive awareness check."

"Oh, right, no problem," Alfred agreed, quickly stepping back to give the doctor room. He waited patiently while the doctor asked a few quick questions before the man stepped back and turned to address him.

"Are you a friend of Mr. Honda?" the doctor asked.

"Oh, umm, I came with him to the hospital," Alfred started, blinking slightly in confusion at the sudden query.

"So, you're the one I've heard so much about." The doctor shook his head, a bemused look crossing his face. "The ER staff said the paramedics were pretty up in arms over the man that demanded they do a field transfusion. That was very risky. I mean blood transfusions can be tricky in good situations," he added, "Not to mention in the field with untrained personnel! You two must be very close."

Over the doctor's shoulder, Alfred saw Japan preparing to speak. Before Japan could protest that they had, in fact, just met, he immediately jumped in, "That's right." He looked meaningfully at the island nation, before looking quickly back to the doctor. "We've known each other a long time. I didn't even consider the risk. I was just trying to save my friend."

"Oh, well then, I'll leave you two to talk." The doctor gave Alfred, and then Japan a quick smile. "Sorry again, for interrupting."

Alfred replied graciously, "No problem, doc. You're just doing your job. Got to keep him alive and I can use all the help I can get," he finished with a smile.

The doctor laughed, "Well if you need me just let me know." With that, he headed off to check on the other patients, leaving the two nations alone.

There was an extended silence while Japan simply stared at Alfred. When Alfred couldn't stand the silence any longer, or the staring, he spoke, "Look, I'm sorry I cut you off like that, but I had to do some really fast talking out there to get the paramedics to help you, and I kind of implied that we knew each other a lot better than we do, and I have no idea who knows what around here so . . ."

"That's, it's fine, thank you, again, very much. I just . . . who are you? And why does my well being matter so much to you?" Japan implored, a faint look of confusion crossing his face.

Alfred fidgeted briefly, then pushed aside his lingering trepidation at revealing himself and replied, "Oh, umm, right, I'm - America."

Japan's eyes widened briefly in shock. Of all the things he might have expected, that hadn't been one of them. But then, it made sense why he had improved so rapidly, so dramatically. He hadn't just received blood, he'd received the blood of another Nation. So this was America. Fascinating. What struck him most though, was the sincerity of the other Nation. America really hadn't considered that the transfusion could be dangerous; he had simply been fully dedicated to helping him, a person, a Nation, he didn't even know.

A small cough startled Japan from his thoughts and had Alfred -America- turning to the occupant of the neighboring bed.

China had elevated the top of his hospital bed and was watching them both with thoughtful, calculating eyes.

"You have my thanks as well," China began after Alfred had turned to face him.

Alfred ducked his head slightly in embarrassment. All this gratitude was making him uncomfortable; it wasn't like he'd done anything special, just what was right, what was necessary.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure anyone else would have be done the same," he replied in a sheepish voice. He unfolded his arms and extended a hand. "I'm just glad that Japan is doing better. Pleasure to meet you, by the way."

China let out a soft hmph and briefly shook the American's hand.

Alfred couldn't help but note how small, almost delicate the Asian nation's hand felt in his own. Unlike Japan, who had seemed reticent to interact with him, China appeared wholly unimpressed and indifferent.

After the brief handshake, China leaned back against his pillows and gave him an expectant look. "Tell me," he began without preamble, "how did you know to give my brother your blood?"

"Well, I had interrogated one of the terrorists," Alfred started after a moment of surprise at the question. "I didn't know the exact methodology, but I knew they wanted to kill everyone.

"Once I reached the room where y'all were being held, it was clear they'd progressed pretty far in their plan." He pressed his lips together for a moment, mind flickering back to the bloody room. "Whatever they'd done, I needed to undo. After I took out the leader, Arthur was able to tell me that the IVs were killing everyone before he passed out.

"I pulled the IVs but no one was getting better." Alfred briefly pressed his lips together before continuing in a softer voice. "Japan was gone. Dead. And not regenerating. Whatever shit they'd been pumping in had to be the problem and since he didn't have any blood left to clear that junk out, I knew mine was his only chance."

China tilted his head to one side. "You guessed," he summarized. He pressed on as Alfred sputtered in response. "You guessed at the reason for Japan's death. You guessed at why his body could not regenerate. And then, you guessed that your own blood would save him as opposed to causing further harm."

America stared the older Nation down, his eyes flint, "He was dead. If I did nothing, he stayed dead. At least my way he had a shot. And, I was right, or he would be in the morgue right now. So, yes, I guessed, and I'd do it again."

"How very brash - how very American." China came just short of sneering.

"You're damn right," Alfred growled. "We are brash, and we do take risks, but you want to know what we don't do: we never, and I mean never, just sit back and watch something bad happen if there's anything we can do to stop it. We take risks, and we never back down, and that's what it means to be an American. That's what it means to be me. And if you don't like it, you can get the hell out as soon as you damn well please. But remember this, while you sit there, all high and mighty and condescending, I saved him . . . I saved you all."

America stood resolutely, his gaze locked with the ancient nation, neither willing to back down.

"Is there a problem here?" Jen broke in firmly. She had hurried over unnoticed as the conflict between Alfred and China escalated.

Immediately, China shifted both his gaze and his attitude to address the human delegate. "Ah, Ms. Williams, I was wanting to speak with you. I would like to have my personal belongs returned to me. It is necessary that I contact my superior."

"Of course," Jen replied with a small nod. "If I'm not mistaken, the FBI has delivered the recovered belongings to the hospital. I'll have one of the orderlies locate and deliver everything."

"Yes, that would be very helpful. I am very grateful for your assistance, Ms. Williams."

Jen walked over to the closest nurse, spoke with her briefly, and returned to speak with China. "Nurse Haskins said that as soon as she's completed her rounds she'll step out and retrieve your belongings. She assured me that she only had one patient left to check on, so it shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

"That is most acceptable. Again, thank you."

"I'm glad I can help," Jen replied with stiff politeness before taking a firm hold on America's elbow and propelling him back to the front of the room towards a few chairs. Before they'd gotten more than halfway there, the stubborn nation stopped short, planting himself, and yanked his arm out of her grip.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was all about," Alfred asked in a low, aggressive tone.

"I believe I should be the one asking you that," Jen responded flatly.

"What the hell did I do?"

"Why don't we start with the fact that we've been here less than half an hour and the first time I look up to check on you, I can tell from clear across the room that you are in a heated argument with the oldest nation on earth? Alfred, I realize that this situation is new and you're not necessarily happy with the fact that all these people know who you are now, but that does not give you license to start instigating fights," she finished in a low, sharp tone.

Most of Alfred's anger melted into hurt. "You know, after everything we went through today, after everything we went through together, I would have thought you'd give me a little more credit than that. I know I'm very good at dealing with conflict, but that doesn't mean I like it."

Jen stood transfixed, trying desperately to process the deep hurt that filled America's eyes - because less than an hour ago, she would have told anyone that he was invincible; she would have told anyone that nothing could hurt him the way it appeared she just had. Finally, she found her voice, "You're right. It was very unfair for me to jump to conclusions like that. I'm sorry."

Alfred shrugged. "I didn't respond well, to China, to what he said, but I didn't start the argument either."

"Ok," Jen floundered, " . . . do you want to talk about it?" She finally asked.

"It's just, he acted like I was negligent, like I didn't care if Japan got hurt." Alfred launched into explanation with no preamble, frustration clear in his voice. "I was trying to save Japan. Ok, so maybe I didn't know exactly what I was doing, or if it would work, but I had to do something." He sighed, winding down. "I couldn't just sit back and watch him die."

"What if it had been Matthew?"

Alfred's head snapped up from where he had been staring at the floor dejectedly. "What does that have to do with anything?" Terror skated across his eyes as he visualized Matthew in Japan's place, then shook his head roughly to clear it.

"Japan is China's brother. So, how would you feel, if China, in an attempt to save Matthew's life in a similar situation, had guessed at the necessary course of treatment and then made a unilateral decision to follow through?"

"Okay," Alfred conceded after reflecting for a few moments, "I get it." He looked back over to the two Asian nations, who both appeared to be resting peacefully, then turned back to Jen. "There's one thing I don't get though: why didn't he just ask me for help?"

Jen looked at him with pure exasperation, "You're kidding me right? Or did you miss the part where I interrupted what I can only assume was a staring match to the death?"

"Sure, we were arguing, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't have helped him."

His sincerity was so absolute it was overwhelming. Taking a deep breath, she tried to approach this logically. "Well let's start with the obvious: in spite of everything else, if China had asked for your help, did you know where his things were being kept?"

Alfred paused. "Well, . . . no. But I'm not incapable of asking around, or, whatever."

"And who, exactly, would you have asked?" Jen persisted.

Again, Alfred paused, not really wanting to answer. "You," he finally admitted.

"So, it seems to me that China might have been justified in asking me instead of you. What do you think?"

Alfred now stood looking very abashed.

"I could have helped," finally came the very petulant response. Then Alfred sighed and continued, "I just don't understand why?"

"Because, even if the two of you hadn't been in the midst of a heated argument about whether or not you had potentially seriously endangered his brother," she paused briefly to roll her eyes at the ridiculousness of having to explain this, "he doesn't know you. Alfred, you have to remember that I am the one that's been doing your job, and before that another human, and back for years and years. China doesn't know you and therefore doesn't trust you. Even if he believed you would have been able to help, he still wouldn't have asked you because he doesn't know you. Additionally, to add a little perspective here, you do realize that you're like the Holy Grail of Nations right now, right?"

"Like in Indiana Jones?"

"Seriously?" Jen asked in exasperation.

Alfred shrugged.

"Then yes, like in Indiana Jones." Jen sighed softly. "Look," she began again, "what I mean is, a lot of people, including the other nations, thought you might not even exist, that America was somehow this weird anomaly with no Nation to represent it. Nobody could figure out how America could be so powerful and yet have no representative. This isn't new just for you; it's new for everybody, including me, and I think I'm the happiest of everybody that you're here and do, in fact, exist. The point I'm trying to make is that I've worked with these people and earned their trust. Now, you're going to have to do the same thing. And they, in turn, will have to earn your trust, but it's all going to take some time."

"Oh, well, yeah, I guess that makes sense. And, I'm sorry for, you know, being all snappy and harsh." Alfred looked at the ground, ashamed of how he'd treated Jen, treated one of his people.

Her hand on his arm brought his head back up. "It's fine," she said graciously. "Look, I need to make some phone calls, and Matthew is looking kind of down over there. Why don't you go be with him, offer some moral support?"

Alfred nodded his agreement. "Yeah, I should do that . . . thanks Jen."

He turned and headed towards his brother.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Canada, but at this point it's up to England when he's going to wake up," the doctor said in a rueful voice.

"Are you sure there's nothing you can do, Dr. Grossbeck?" Canada gave the doctor a pleading look, gripping the bed-railing with white knuckled hands. England was so still, so small and pale looking - it felt like the Blitz all over again.

Dr. Grossbeck shook his head.

"I've done everything I know to do. This is unlike anything I've ever seen before. I'm sorry Canada, but none of us, not me or England's doctor, or anyone else I'm in contact with ever even considered that this was possible. We always thought that your human form was just a convenient way for you all to interact with your people. Certainly we marveled at your regenerative abilities, but we could never come close to pinpointing what was responsible for it, more or less how to recreate it. The only time any of you ever suffered in any significant way was when the country itself was in turmoil and even then we never have been able to do more than try to help make you comfortable until the crisis passes.

"Honestly Canada, I want to help England, but nothing in my experience as your personal physician has prepared me for anything like this." The doctor wore an unhappy look on his face, clearly pained that he didn't have any answers.

Canada pressed Dr. Grossbeck further, voice desperate, "But why isn't he awake yet? Almost all the others are awake . . . even Japan. How is it that Japan is awake, but not England?"

Shaking his head slightly, Grossbeck responded. "I can only assume that the key to Japan's quick recovery was that when he lost so much blood, the poison went with it. With the poison out of his system, his body's natural healing mechanisms must have kicked back in. Of course, him receiving uncontaminated blood also helped immensely. I know the paramedics weren't happy about it, but without that blood, it's very likely, based on the reports I've read, that Japan would never have recovered."

Canada stared at his doctor in shock. Sure he'd seen Japan, seen how bad of shape he was in in the ambulance, but the idea that he might actually die . . . it didn't even compute.

Concerned by Canada's silence and the color draining from his face, the doctor attempted to reassure him. "Matthew, there's no need to worry. Japan is fine now, and England will wake up. His vitals have steadily improved as we've pumped in the IV liquids to cleanse his blood. It's really only a matter of time-"

"Until somebody tries again," Canada cut in bleakly.

"No," Dr. Grossbeck stated authoritatively, narrowing light blue eyes. "Now that we know this is a possibility, you can rest assured that we will do everything we can to learn all we can. You are my patient, and I will not sit idly by and watch you be harmed. I'm sure the doctors of the other nations feel the same. This will need to be a joint effort, and it will mean you all will be seeing more of us than you normally would in the near future, but we will figure this out. We will find a way to protect you," he finished softly.

Canada nodded, and the doctor patted his shoulder briefly before he turned and headed towards Russia, who also remained unconscious.

"You mustn't fret so, petit," France commented. Canada, startled, looked over at his former guardian. "England is a survivor. There is no need to worry. He will not be killed so easily; he's far too stubborn."

With a heavy sigh, Canada turned and collapsed down on the chair sitting between the European nations' beds. Arms balanced on his knees, he buried his head in his hands. The longer England remained unconscious, the harder it became to believe he would ever wake up; no matter what Dr. Grossbeck said. And a world without the man who had raised him was terrifying to consider. As he sat, a long fingered hand reached out and came to rest on his shoulder. Slowly, Canada lifted his head and looked once more at France.

The older nation gave him an encouraging smile. Even in a windowless hospital room clad in a shapeless hospital gown, France somehow managed to look debonair.

"We will not lose him," France repeated, winking as he gave Canada's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Everyone but Russia has already woken up." He shifted his gaze to England's inert form. "He will wake up as well. Just give him time."

The moment shattered like glass as Matthew's head jerked to look the other direction, sensing the sudden approach of a presence that was quickly becoming very familiar. Alfred. Given the dread suddenly running through him, he didn't know if that familiarity was a good or a bad thing.

"Hey, why the long faces?" Alfred teased, grinning and bounding over like a hyperactive golden retriever.

Canada stared at him, dumbfounded. His eyes shifted to England.

"What, this guy?" Alfred reached over and ruffled England's hair. "He'll be fine; he's a fighter."

"Stop that," Matthew insisted in horror, spring to his feet and slapping America's hand away. "And how do you know that?" he demanded.

"Know what?" Alfred asked back, still smiling.

"That he's a fighter."

Alfred's face shifted, setting in a more serious demeanor. "I know this first part is going to be hard to hear, but down in that room, where they were being tortured, he was in bad shape. It was clear they'd been working him over from the beginning; he was beaten and bleeding, but still, he stayed awake long enough to tell me that the IVs were poison, that I had to get them out. He's a hero."

Canada began to tear up. It was all too much. The description of how England had been brutalized followed by America's kind words about his courage and strength-

"And now," Alfred continued, his tone lightening, "It's time to turn that frown, upside down." He promptly wrapped his arm around Matthew's neck and yanked him down to give him a noogie.

"What are- no- stop that!" Canada yelped, squirming as he struggled to throw off the merciless hold.

"Oh what, you don't like that? Maybe this will be better," Alfred continued playfully. His free hand began to to dance up and down his brother's sides as he expertly located Matthew's ticklish spots.

"No, no . . . st- stop," Canada pleaded, gasping for breath between helpless giggles.

"That is enough!"

France's shout immediately drew Alfred's attention, triggering his frazzled instincts: protect Matthew; neutralize the threat. Alfred immediately released his hold on Matthew, the restraining arm slipping up and over Matthew's head, his hand landing in the center of his brother's chest pushing him back into England's bed and out of danger.

France was out of his bed and advancing, his arms up to shove America away from Canada. Before he could make contact though, America had latched onto his wrist with a nearly crushing grip and, using France's momentum against him, pulled him through, spun him around, and released him, sending him sprawling backwards across the room. France hit the wall between China and Japan's beds with a thud.

America, intent on ensuring the threat was neutralized, began moving towards France when suddenly his line of sight was blocked. He raised his fist to deal with this new threat, but froze when he realized it was Matthew. Slowly he lowered his arm, his breathing slightly labored with unspent adrenaline. He stood frozen in place.

Across the room, France stood and steadied himself on the railing of China's bed.

Two of the guards from the front of the room reached them and one spoke. "Do we have a problem here gentlemen?"

France looked to Canada. Matthew looked to Alfred.

Alfred replied, "Yeah, we're good. Just a misunderstanding." He looked at France. "Right?"

"Yes, a misunderstanding only," France agreed after a moment.

"Good. I will ask you both to remember that this is a hospital and these patients are recovering. Another incident like this and you will both be removed . . . by force if necessary. Are we clear?"

"Yeah," Alfred said. France nodded.

"Then we'll return to our posts." With that they moved back towards the front of the room.

As America relaxed his stance, France began to move back across the room towards his family. "Canada?" he asked, voice cautious.

"Um, it's fine," Canada replied, a hint of nerves showing in his voice. "I think." Slowly, he straightened up. Remaining between the two combatants, he casted a quick look over at England, making sure his former guardian was unharmed.

"Did he hurt you?" France was closer, eyes wary as he came back in arm's reach of America.

"The hell do you mean, 'did I hurt him?'" Alfred was practically shouting, but when he saw the guards at the front of the room shift, he immediately lowered his voice while waving them off. "Let me remind you," he continued in a forceful whisper, "that you were the aggressor. If he's hurt it sure as hell isn't my fault." He shifted his attention quickly to Matthew, "You're not hurt are you? I mean you're okay right?" His voice was anxious and there was a hint of guilt in his eyes.

"I'm fine," Canada repeated. He took a deep breath, pushing back the twinge of pain coming from the spot where America had shoved him. While a bruise was likely forming under his shirt, there was no reason to mention it - he had no desire to be the center of another fight.

France locked eyes with America over Canada's shoulder. "I may have been the aggressor, but that is only because of your completely uncouth behavior. You may not care about that man lying in the hospital bed, but England is our family, and I don't think that it's too much to ask that you show him and us a little respect. I do not believe I have ever witnessed such atrocious and inappropriate behavior!"

"France, let's just take a deep breath," Canada interrupted. " I think we can all agree that none of us are at our best right now, and you both made mistakes. I think you need to remember though that America cared enough about England, and everybody else here, that he took on a bunch of armed terrorist with help only from the micronations. If he hadn't done that, none of us would be here right now, including England, and he was under no obligation to help any of us.

"Also, how many times have one of our meetings degenerated into a fist fight?" Canada added. "Greece and Turkey brawl on a regular basis, Hungary constantly attacks Prussia, and when England's brothers are around . . . honestly the only word I have for it is chaos. So, I hardly think any of us can claim any kind of superiority or moral high ground when it comes to inappropriate behavior."

"There is a time and a place," France retorted. His eyes moved from Canada to Alfred, giving the newcomer a scathing glare, before looking back to Canada.

"Matthew?"

Matthew turned his attention to Alfred.

"Look, man, I wasn't trying to be disrespectful or start anything." Alfred bit his lip for a moment before continuing, "It's obvious that England is important to you. You just, you looked so upset, and the doctor said he's going to be fine. I just wanted to cheer you up a little, you know, take your mind off of everything or whatever." Alfred reluctantly shifted his gaze to France. "Look, about before, well, it looked like you were going to hurt Matthew and I just reacted. I hope you're okay."

"As well as I can be, under the circumstances." France sniffed slightly before turning and stalking away.

America looked back to Canada. "We - we're okay, right?"

"We're okay," Canada replied in a reassuring voice. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, needing a moment to recenter himself. Realization dawned: this was going to be his life now; America jumping in without thinking and causing a ruckus, then everyone expecting him to fix it. He took a moment to mourn the loss of his former life. "Just . . . no more noogies." He gave America a severe look. "Or I swear I will sic my polar bear on you."

America stared. A sliver of hope began to grow in Canada. He was listening, learning-

Alfred looked over at the hospital bed where Kumajiro slept snuggled up against Wy, then turned back to Matthew, a grin splitting his face, "Dude, fuzz-ball is adorable, and I'm all about the cuddles! Bring it!"

\- Or not.

* * *

"Here are the coloring books and crayons. We thought you might like some games as well."

Molossia jerked slightly, straightening up from where he'd been waiting, slouched against a wall near the nurse's station. It had been a relief to slip out of the personification's recovery room earlier. Besides Canada, Molossia had only had a few encounters with the larger nations and none of them had been pleasant. Needless to say, he'd been quite happy to act on America's suggestion that he locate some coloring books or something similar for the smaller micronations to entertain themselves with while they waited in the hospital.

He'd found the nurse's station just down the hallway, and it didn't take long to convince the nurses to ask an orderly to run down to the children's ward and fetch some books and crayons. He'd been waiting ever since, reluctant to rejoin the other personifications any sooner than absolutely necessary.

Molossia stared at the orderly for a moment before registering the small bundle of coloring books and boxes of crayons being offering to him along with a few basic board games. Trying to kick his tired brain back into gear, he offered a mumbled "Thanks" and accepted the materials, hugging them to his chest as he then turned and began to trudge back down the bland beige hallway towards the recovery room.

He stopped in front of the door to the room and slowly pushed it open. As he entered, he spotted America chatting with Canada at the far side of the room, a wide grin on his face. France was watching them, America especially, with a suspicious look. Prussia continued to hover protectively over Germany, and Seborga had his feet propped up on Italy's bed as the pair chatted away in rapid Italian.

Molossia, reluctant to go any further into the room than necessary, hurried over to the bed Sealand and the others had claimed. Sealand had rolled onto his back, head hanging off the edge in obvious boredom while Wy and Kugelmugel were sprawled out at the head and foot of the bed respectively.

"Here you go, brats," Molossia announced, dropping his small load on Sealand's stomach.

"Hey!" the small fort protested, limbs jerking in surprise. The exclamation turned into a soft yelp as the sudden movement caused the micronation to slide off the bed, landing with a solid thud. There was a loud clatter as the books, crayons, and board games slid after him.

Wy started giggling, flopping onto her back and waking Kumajiro from his nap while Kugelmugel peered over the side with wide, concerned eyes before hopping down and helping the other micronation retrieve the scattered items.

"You're a jerk," Sealand groaned, his voice floating up from the other side of the bed.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Molossia replied flippantly.

While Sealand righted himself and began helping Kugelmugel return the fallen items to the bed, the American micronation cast a second cautious look around the room.

Russia, in the bed opposite the micronations, was finally showing signs of regaining consciousness: the monitoring equipment was starting to beep louder and faster while his limbs began to twitch periodically.

As the doctor bent over the Russian, his eyes fluttered open and he jerked sideways, an arm sweeping out and knocking the man away.

The doctor stumbled back, slamming into the wall next to the door. Without thinking, Molossia ran over and grabbed the disoriented nation's shoulders, trying to push him back down before anyone else got hurt.

"Nyet!" Russia bent his arm and drove his elbow into Molossia's stomach. As the micronation doubled over, wheezing, Russia's fist caught him under the chin and knocked him back towards the doctor, who had slid, stunned, to the floor. Instead of a hard wall, however, he slammed into a strong, warm body.

"I've got you," America's voice murmured in his ear, large hands holding him steady and upright. "We have a problem here?" the nation demanded in a louder voice, the question filled with icy rage.

The depth of America's rage brought Molossia to a gut-wrenchingly terrifying realization: the Cold War was about to break out all over again . . . because of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note: Like we said at the beginning, this is the chapter from hell.
> 
> Getting this uploaded basically required rewriting huge chunks for the second time. We'd already done so once before while we were still posting to the Kink Meme. 
> 
> We completely changed the Alfred-Japan-China interaction. What we originally had just. . . couldn't be fixed, not with the feedback we'd gotten on the original scenario. Japan was out of character and we didn't have enough depth in the conversation between Alfred and China. We talked through everything and fleshed it out a lot more. We're much happier with the results.
> 
> As a result of fixing the Alfred-Japan-China conversation, however, we had to make numerous tweaks to other sections. The Alfred-Jen conversation immediately following shifted in tone a bit but it much, much stronger. There were also several areas where the undercurrent of the ongoing conversations had to be tweaked.
> 
> Canada's conversation with his doctor about England also got a major overhaul. We've added more about the immediate situation and highlighted some of the concerns everyone has now going forward. 
> 
> There were a ton of little changes here and there where we adjusted descriptors and a few words. We also took out most of the smilies we'd put in -- we're really terrible at those and, frankly, just need to stop trying.
> 
> Anyways, that's chapter 18! Thank god it's fixed and done!


	19. Chapter 19

Tingling. Lips, hands. Everything was so heavy, so cold. Slowly, he felt awareness seeping through him, bringing with it a throbbing pain behind his closed eyes and jabs like lances as strange echoing sounds grew louder and clearer. He tried to flex his hands, desperate to shake away the tingling-- but his limbs resisted, weighed down like lead weights.

Panic began to set in as the awareness lingered but his inability to move continued. Suddenly a presence hovered over him, one he did not recognize. Then it all came rushing back to him -- captured. He and the others were being held hostage and he wouldn’t stand for it any longer. Gathering all his strength, he threw his arm out forcefully. The impact was reassuring as it meant he’d hit his target.

Then, hands on him, trying to hold him down, no doubt trying to put him under again. “Nyet!” he snarled, renewing his efforts. Elbow to the gut, and throw out a punch for good measure. They could keep coming; he would keep fighting. He had been imprisoned before and endured. He would survive this.

“We have a problem here?”

The sudden anger-laced question grabbed the whole of his attention. It bounced, echoed through his brain before he understood what had been said, but one thing was for certain: he recognized that voice. So he grasped desperately at the meaning, ceasing his determined struggles.

For the second time in mere moments, memories came cascading in. A man had rescued them. The man had thrown him a phone and ordered him to call the authorities. Yes, this was the same voice.

Taking a deep breath, he collapsed back down onto . . . a bed. It occurred to him, that it might be a good idea, at this point, to open his eyes. He forced them open, and then slammed them back shut. The light was blinding. He tried again, slowly, allowing his vision to focus. The sounds around him slowly began to make sense. Without removing his gaze from the ceiling, he realized he must be in a hospital room.

“Russia?” Prussia’s voice came from nearby, cautious and tentative.

“Nyet, I do not want to speak to you.” He turned his head, however, to look at the former nation. “The man that saved us, where is he.”

“Right here,” that voice came from behind, that voice that had asked the angry question.

Russia turned to face the voice, mentally noting the room’s entrance behind the speaker. “No, there is no problem here. You are . . .” his voice trailed off.

“America.”

So, he did exist, and he had appeared just in time to save the day like some over-muscled Hollywood action hero. The irony was not lost on him -- and he _hated it_. Hated that a country he had fought for so many years had saved him today. He could feel the vitriol bubbling up and seething inside him. He took a deep breath, trying to regain control, when a soothing voice floated out to him.

“We are all alive because of him.” China stepped up next to his bed, arms folded across his chest. “He killed the terrorists and we were taken to a hospital. You are safe now. As is everyone else.”

Russia nodded his understanding.

“You’re leaving out mine and Canada’s awesome sniping skills,” Prussia interrupted. The white haired man bounded into view to drape an arm around China’s slender shoulders. “Even Mr. Action Hero wouldn’t have won if we hadn’t been working the situation outside.”

“I told you, I do not want to talk to you, so shut your mouth before I break all your teeth.” With that, Russia closed his eyes, effectively blocking out the others around him.

Alfred watched with a raised eyebrow as China began shoving Prussia away. The large Russian that had started the commotion was now lying still, eyes closed, and refusing to interact further with anyone. Shaking his head at the quiet chaos as Prussia refused to be dislodged, Alfred turned around to check on Molossia.

“You ok?”

“Yeah,” Molossia did a quick self-check, hands skimming over his arms and torso in a brief search for injuries. “Yeah, I’m good,” he reported with relief.

“Ok . . . good.” Alfred fidgeted awkwardly. “Umm, we could go over, with the others, if you want,” he finally said gesturing to the other micronations. “You know, uh, give Russia and the others some space.”

“That . . . sounds like a fantastic idea.” Molossia was quick to scurry over to the micronation laden bed where he perched on the edge and adopted an air of nonchalance.

After a moment’s hesitation, and a quick glance at the continuing argument next to Russia’s bed, America followed, hovering near Molossia.

Wy reached up and grabbed a hold of Alfred’s sleeve. He turned to her and she released him immediately but still maintained eye contact. She fidgeted.

“Yes, Wy,” he addressed her politely but tiredly.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Defend Molossia? Protect him? Against another Nation? A proper Nation?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Molossia, and the rest of us, we’re just micronations. The Nations don’t really pay much attention to us.” She shrugged plaintively. “We’re just . . . micronations.”

Alfred shook his head sadly and let loose a deep sigh. He dropped down to sit beside her and looked into her eyes. Then, Alfred closed his eyes and his face became serene, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

“That’s beautiful,” Wy exclaimed in quiet awe.

“That is the essence of America. It’s part of the poem engraved at the base of the Statue of Liberty, a gift from our French friends. It means that America stands for those who are displaced, who are fighting for their freedom and independence, but don’t have anywhere else to go. It means that you, the micronations, stand for a core tenet of American belief: that you have a right to peaceably live life the way you see fit under a government of your choosing. If there’s somebody here in this room that I should definitively support and protect, it’s all of you.”

“Does that mean . . . does that mean we have to come live with you?”

Alfred was confused but forged ahead, “Well that would kinda defeat the purpose of you being your own person now wouldn’t it?”

All of the micronations looked at each other in startled disbelief.

Sealand jumped in. “Does that mean you would be our friend?” he asked breathlessly.

“You tell me. What does it mean to be a friend?” Alfred cocked an eyebrow.

“Well, you spend time together and help each other out when you need it and if someone is bullying your friend you stick up for them, even if the bully can beat you both up.” He glanced quickly at Russia and then back at Alfred.

“That sounds like support and protection to me. So, yes, I’d be happy to be your friend.”

“You stupid American,” Russia began from his bed. “You are just now being discovered and you think you have the authority to recognize someone as a Nation.”

Alfred’s eyes went dark and his face became like stone as he turned slightly to responded. “America has a history of recognizing peaceful nations upon their formation. We recognized Taiwan when it split from China, as well as South Vietnam and Cambodia. We were the first to recognize Israel as a nation and, then in the 1960s, as a stabilizing force in the Middle East and have supported and allied with them ever since.

“So, I don’t care how long I’ve been “discovered” because that doesn’t change that I support those seeking peaceful freedom and their ability to act upon and maintain those inalienable rights with which they were born. I will do whatever is best for my people and supporting and upholding nations, or micronations, that share our values will always fall in that category. I don’t need approval from anyone to do what’s best for my country but especially not from you. And one more thing: try and stop me.”

* * *

As Alfred sat protectively with the micronations, a wave of exhaustion suddenly swept over him; it had been such a long day. One full of stress and emotional turmoil. And all of it on the heels of a sleepless night. He was tired, he was hungry, and he just wanted this all to be over. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and a lot had happened since then. It occurred to him that Jen could help with part of the problem, so he waved at her, signaling for her to come over.

Jen walked over, “What’s up?” Her eyes flickered briefly over to Russia’s bed, leery of another row breaking out.

“Food?” He rubbed his weary face. “Sorry,” he apologized in response to her confusion at his one word query, “look, I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of hungry and I bet everyone else is as well. So, could we get some food?”

As Jen opened her mouth to respond, a loud gurgle floated out of her stomach. She blinked, then laughed softly. “That sounds like an excellent idea. I’ll have some trays sent up from the cafeteria”

Alfred nodded in thanks after making a brief face at the thought of hospital food. Jen moved off to make the appropriate arrangements, still chuckling. Turning his attention back to the micronations, he took stock of his small friends, double-checking that they were doing alright.

Molossia seemed wholly recovered from the intense encounter with Russia and was sitting half-on and half-off the bed, one leg dangling off the side as he leaned back against the wall. He appeared to be dozing, arms folded across his chest.

Sealand, who, quite frankly seemed like a little bit of a weird dude, was sitting next to Molossia intently writing . . . something, all the while casting random, intense looks at Alfred. Whatever he was working on, Alfred knew, it was really going to be something to behold.

Kugelmugel sat further down the bed near Sealand, happily making use of the crayons that Kumajiro was passing to him on the coloring books the hospital had provided. A flicker of amusement ran through Alfred as he glanced at the drawing. The kid was going places if that was the kind of work he could do. He hadn’t even realized you could do that with just crayons.

Wy had remained close to America after his pledge of friendship, eventually laying her head on his leg and falling asleep as Alfred gently stroked her hair.

Seborga was as cheerful and relaxed as Alfred had ever seen him, sitting and chatting happily with Italy. The more Alfred studied them, the more he could see the resemblance.

Pleased to see that, for now, all was well, and with food on its way, Alfred shifted his weight slightly (mindful of Wy) and carefully extracted his long-neglected phone from his pocket. He hadn’t had a chance to check it since it had ended up out of commission earlier thanks to the signal jammers. As he woke up the device, the screen practically exploded with unread notifications and alerts. Campus updates (Active shooter! Shelter in place!), messages and voicemails from classmates and (human) friends, several dozen increasingly distressed and vulgar texts from Tony, and a wide assortment of news updates from sources such as the Associated Press, CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC.

It took several minutes to un-explode his phone, and he also made sure to send Tony an update on his condition and the situation. The alien was quick to respond, clearly irate at how long Alfred had been out of touch. And man had it been _long_ , he realized finally recognizing the time.

 _7:30._ He had been going non-stop for nearly 12 hours today, with a sleepless night before that. Was it just around _noon_ today that all this mess had started? Had it only been three hours ago that he ended the terrorist threat? And then the past two hours in this room, man what a day.

Breaking free from these overwhelming realizations, Alfred reached down and carefully lifted Wy’s head off his leg. Sensing the movement, Molossia opened his eyes then wordlessly passed him the pillow from the head of the bed, which Alfred then eased under Wy’s head.

Standing, he stretched for a moment, willing energy into his tired limbs. Tucking his phone back into his pants pocket, Alfred meandered across the room to Canada’s side.

Reaching England’s bedside, he settled a comforting hand on Matthew’s shoulder.

Canada jumped slightly at the unexpected contact. “Oh, hi,” he responded in a dull voice, looking up at Alfred.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. How you holdin’ up?” Alfred questioned.

Canada looked back to England morosely. “He’s still not awake.”

At this despondent reply, Alfred decided that maybe Matthew just needed some more time alone, so he gently patted him on the back in encouragement before quietly withdrawing, heading back to the micronations to wait for food and the right time to come back and offer support and comfort.

* * *

It would have been a lie to say that the conversation between America and the micronations passed unnoticed by the nations gathered in the hospital room. Rather, the assembled nations were paying very close attention to every move made and every word spoken by the mysterious America.

The successful covert operation and rescue he had run against the terrorists proved he had courage, a strategic mind, and martial ability. His encouraging words to Italy, Japan, and the others suggested a warm and welcoming personality. The contrast between his near assault on France and the way he coddled the micronations, however, was puzzling. The narrowly averted fight with Russia (over the same micronations of all things!) -- that was also highly concerning.

While Italy retreated to the comforting side of Japan and Canada continued his quiet vigil at England’s side, the remaining nations had gradually drifted into a huddle between Russia’s and Germany’s beds. France tracked America’s movements with narrowed eyes, distrust clear on his face.

After several minutes of soft argument, Prussia interjected, frustration evident in his voice. “Everybody needs to stop fretting. His presence is nothing to be concerned with, except for his uncanny resemblance to Canada. Without him, and my awesome help of course, you all would be dead. If nothing else, I think you at least owe him your gratitude. Besides, it is not wise to judge too quickly. Not very awesome either, I would know. Clearly you should all try being more like me.”

France rolled his eyes in contempt at this last statement. “This is no time for your nonsense. What, was he so awesome you developed a crush?” The question dripped sarcasm. “Be serious. It is clear that there is no way we can trust him. We barely know him.”

“Of course you think that,” China responded with a roll of his eyes. He jumped up to sit on the edge of Russia’s bed. “I don’t care for his recklessness, of course, but your issue with him is, I think, much simpler, which is this: America clearly doesn’t trust you,” he snorted. “It’s quite a contrast with how much he clearly trusts Canada -- and is trusted in turn by _him_.” He paused for a moment giving France a sly look. “They already seem as close as the brothers they appear to be.”

France sputtered, outraged at China’s words. “It is not simply that he’s unhinged enough to _attack_ someone he worked tirelessly to rescue mere hours earlier! Whatever the moral reasoning behind his actions, America brazenly confronted an entire terrorist cell _alone_ with no weapons, no intelligence on the terrorists, or even a plan! Furthermore, he nearly came to blows with Russia over a micronation-- when the boy clearly wasn’t in any real danger -- and I hardly see how a made-up country is worth potentially causing a diplomatic nightmare. Especially between _those two_ countries. And then to run the risk of a conflict all over again to protect the micronations as a whole? Lunacy! Madness! Lunacy and madness both. It’s intolerable!

“What’s more,” France continued, pointedly raising his voice slightly to preemptively override Prussia’s objections, “he has been highly emotional since arriving, far more than is reasonable. He is clearly unstable and we are all in danger because of it.” Folding his arms, the Gaelic nation cast an irritated glance towards England. “He should never have been permitted to remain undiscovered. It is clear these centuries in isolation have significantly addled his brain!”

"You are forgetting our history," China quietly retorted. "How many of our kind wandered from village to village, all alone, before we encountered another of our kind? How many _years_ have our kind lived in isolation? This is not uncharted territory for us."

"This isn't the old world anymore," Russia argued, speaking up for the first time. " _His people_ have tried to make this world one of words and meetings and committees. And now? None of us know what will become of the world. Even the nature of war has changed. Everything, it is always evolving now. The old ways, they are no longer relevant."

China looked up at France with wise, ancient eyes. "Russia’s mostly correct. It’s not simply that _his people_ changed the world." He looked over at America. "He may not have taken direct action, but he represents his people as much as any of us do our own; he _is_ the new world. His appearance merely simplifies matters, streamlines an awkward system--”

Russia cut in, “No, you misunderstand. If the old ways are no more, we have no way of knowing what will come next. We cannot assume that everything will work out just as it always has before. I am with France. He is a menace; one that needs to be dealt with swiftly.”

China gave France a significant look. “Russia agrees with you. Does this make you feel better? More, at ease?”

“In particular, no.” France scowled at China, hating that he had been bested by the Asian nation. Why did Russia always have to be so . . . aggressive?

“As I was saying," China continued, "his appearance merely streamlines the process. America would, of course, benefit from an experienced hand guiding him in our ways." China smirked, his gaze shifting pointedly over to where the new personification was sitting across from Canada. "I wonder who he will choose."

* * *

The lights were too bright. As England slowly grew more aware of his surroundings, he realized that the harsh light filling the room was, in part, the cause of the stabbing pain in his head. After several minutes of fluttering his eyes open and closed, they finally adjusted to the light and he risked turning his head. Relief filled him when he saw Canada's familiar face sitting next to his bed, a bland looking wall behind him. "Canada," he croaked, wincing at the raw feeling in his throat.

Canada laughed, a wide grin crossing his face. "That's the second time you've mistaken me for him."

"England, how are you feeling?"

The anxious voice came from the other side of the bed. He knew that voice. Confused, England turned his head to the other side of the bed. Canada. What?

Blinking frantically, England lifted a sluggish hand to his face, rubbing his sensitive eyes, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

"Oops," came the voice on the opposite side of the bed. He sensed movement, and then the person that had been sitting in front of the wall came into view as he hurried around the bed. He gave Canada a playful nudge and the northern nation scooted over so they could share the hard plastic seat.

England stared. Identical faces looked back at him, one amused and the other anxious.

"Wha-" England's eyes flickered back and forth and as he realized he was not, in fact, seeing double, he found his mind cataloging the _differences_ in the two figures sitting close together in front of him. Longer hair versus short hair. Round red glasses instead of blue square frames. A long, free-spirited curl contrasted with a short, wild-looking cowlick. A red hoodie and a blue t-shirt. "What the _fuck_?" he finally demanded.

"Um, this is Alfred. He's . . . America," Canada replied anxiously in his soft voice. "He was there at the school when this . . . mess . . . started. He intervened and saved everyone. We, uh, we just met a few hours ago."

"It wasn't just me," Alfred--America-- exclaimed, the amused look melting away. He beamed with pride and threw an arm around Canada's shoulders. "Couldn't have done it if this dude hadn't KO'ed the snipers! I didn't get to see it, but I heard it was wicked awesome shooting! Between him and me, we took out the terrorists that were torturing you guys and got everyone to the hospital. America and Canada saved the day!” Grinning, America gave England a thumbs up.

England continued to stare at the pair squeezed onto the single small chair. He could feel his brain starting to short circuit. America. His former colony. Here. Looking exactly like Canada. They’d killed the terrorists. Together? And now-- America . . . he actually exists?

And with his brain now in full-blown overload, England promptly passed out again.

“Huh.” America stared down at England. “Think he was overwhelmed with joy?”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s exactly what happened,” Canada replied in a dry voice. “Exactly that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: we added a new section for Alfred to just reflect on the events depicted in this story. The rest of the chapter was heavily massaged to ensure the tone would match the changes we made to 18. We retouched a lot of dialog, added more back and forth with China, Russia, and France, and did the usual clean-up.


	20. Chapter 20

There was sound. Beeping. And . . . whispering?

“Go. Now.”

That voice was familiar.

“Look, you can’t seriously think last time was my fault,” a second, unfamiliar voice responded in exasperation.

“Actually, that’s exactly what I think. Now, go. Get in the corner and zip it.”

Matthew. That was Matthew’s voice and whoever he was speaking to, he was being uncharacteristically adamant and firm with said individual.

Eyes. If he opened his eyes, he could see Matthew, and, though he was obviously being banished to the corner, he might be able to determine who the mystery individual was. Also, he might be able to determine where he was and why. So, yes, opening his eyes seemed to be the right course of action.

* * *

As the monitoring equipment began to signal that England was on the verge of awakening for the second time, the other nations watched as Canada and America bickered and, ultimately, watched as America moved petulantly to the corner on the opposite side of the room. Once there, America leaned back against the wall with a huff and a pout, his arms crossed over his chest.

The exchange was both amusing and reassuring. The appearance of America had been initially disconcerting, especially with the early altercation and apparent defiance with Russia. However, as time had passed, it had become clear that America cared for his brother, Canada, even though they had only known each other now for a short time. The briefness of their acquaintance however did not negate that the care America had for Canada equated into Canada having the smallest modicum of control and influence with the newly discovered nation. It gave the other gathered nations hope that America could eventually work with them as an equal, though it would clearly mean changes and adjustments for everyone.

* * *

England blinked several times in the brightness of the lights before Matthew came into focus. He looked around briefly, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever else had been speaking.

“Are you alright,” Matthew asked, quickly shifting to hover next to his head. “Do you need something?” Without waiting for England to respond he continued. “You’re in the hospital. There was a hostage situation and you were hurt pretty bad. The doctors said you might not remember and that that was normal and--”

England held up a hand to cease the onslaught of babbling. Canada took a deep breath.

“Sorry,” Canada mumbled sheepishly.

The recovering nation took a few moments to process the information. He did remember, vaguely, the attack, and the torture, and his mind suddenly shied away from those memories, moving back to the present. He needed to sit up.

Suddenly the mystery voice piped up from across the room. “See, you overwhelm him with information the second he’s awake, but it was my fault he passed out early. I see how it is.” The voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Canada shot a deadly glare over his shoulder.

Oh, he really needed to sit up and figure out who the hell this guy was. It also occurred to him that he could just ask.

“Who the hell is that?”

Canada, realizing that England wanted to change position, moved forward to help him. “Nobody,” he responded quickly.

“Well that’s just hurtful.”

“One more word and so help me you are un-invited to my birthday party,” Canada snapped.

The room was silent.

Once he was finally sitting, he could see the outline of the stranger in the corner, and, while following that brief exchange England thought he would look angry or upset, more than anything he honestly seemed hurt. And now he was confused as hell. Who was this guy that he was allowed in the room with him, and all the other nations he noticed standing around the room, and who was he that he was causing Matthew to act, well, extremely out of character?

“Can someone please, slowly, explain to me what the hell is going on?” he demanded, sweeping the room with a flinty gaze. Spotting France lurking a few beds away, he locked eyes with his eternal neighbor and raised his hand, crooking a finger in a silent demand that the other approach and explain.

“Angleterre, I am pleased to see that you are more coherent than last time,” France began once he had made his way over to England’s bed.

“Last time?” England demanded, brows furrowing.

“Mm, you awoke once before for but a few moments.” France paused, giving him a considering look. “You do not remember?”

“Clearly not, now explain.”

“Very well.” And with that, France began to weave a story that sounded both overly fanciful and gut-sickeningly familiar.

* * *

In the dim corner of the hospital room, Alfred watched as France detailed the day’s chaos. Matthew’s earlier order to go stand in the corner still stung, but deep down he understood the reasoning behind it. And now, as his brother hovered anxiously between England’s bedside and France, it felt like he was looking at a family picture -- one that had no place for him. As France finished his explanation of the events that had lead them here, Alfred noted that England looked very much like he belonged in the hospital at the moment.

* * *

England focused on breathing. As France had spun his tale, images had come alive vividly in his mind’s eye, and no matter how much it sounded like a Hollywood action flick, the memories were too real to deny. Oh, how he hated America; this place had never caused him anything but trouble. Accepting that this was his reality, that these things had indeed happened to him, he slowly came to a realization as the memories settled in -- there was something missing. France had told him all that had happened, but he had left out some keys bits of information, like how -- or more importantly who. Because there, in his memories, was a figure, out of focus and more like a shadow, but somehow, someone had saved them, had saved them all.

Alfred watched, saw the moment when it clicked, and instantly he was the sole recipient of England’s laser-focused gaze. He glanced over at Matthew for a moment before straightening up from his slouch against the wall and stepping back over to England’s bedside.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand to shake.

England did not reach out to reciprocate the gesture. He sat dumbfounded. The resemblance to Canada was uncanny. They were virtually identical. It took him a moment to catalog the few notable differences, but even as he completed this task he found himself at a loss. Any possible, plausible explanations for why this man would look so much like Canada eluded him. His thoughts skipped like a broken record.

Matthew, alarmed by England’s lack of response, finally spoke up, “England?” When the other nation did not respond to his name, Canada reached out and placed his hand on England’s shoulder and shook him ever so slightly.

England’s gaze snapped to him. “Canada?” He asked uncertainly.

“Yes, it’s me.” He bit his lip, worried.

Slowly, England looked back over to Alfred. He took a few minutes to let his eyes travel back and forth between the two before addressing Canada again.

“Then . . . who is this?”

“England, this is my twin brother, Alfred. He -- he’s the United States of America.”

For a few moments, the room was perfectly still. The silence hung heavy; time was suspended, waiting.

Finally, England spoke, “Oh, bloody hell.”

* * *

The Thames sprawled out in front of him, its waters a bustle of activity in the middle of the day. How he loved the view from this office. Indeed there was nothing else like it. His idle musings were interrupted by a brief knock at his door followed shortly by his personal assistant entering carrying a silver serving tray.

The slightly older man moved deftly across the small, but very posh and finely furnished, office to set the tray on a small, round, ornate table of dark, rich oak that sat between two leather covered wingback chairs.

“Sir, your tea.”

“Thank you, Conrad.”

“If I may, you seem to be in an exceptionally good mood sir?”

“I shouldn’t be?”

“Well, sir, I’m just very aware of how important the mission in America was. I would have thought the failure would have been rather disappointing.”

“It’s not a complete loss. Now, we know how to kill them, and we know it works.” He allowed his posture to relax, leaning his elbows on the ancient mahogany desk before him, his fingers steepled. His grey-blue eyes were icy with certainty, and they gleamed with a sharp hunger. “Patience; all that remains now is patience.”

“In that case, sir, wouldn’t the advantage be to the enemy.”

“They are ignorant of our identity and our full intent. And while death may not be natural to them and killing them may take a concerted and deliberate effort, there are many more of us than there are of them, and we are more than capable of recruiting, of passing on the cause, one generation to the next. Secret societies have existed like this, arguably for thousands of years, and our presence, our existence,” his laugh was darkly conceited, “well, it’s hardly a secret. A fact we are all the better for. It may take months, years, even decades, but, ultimately, we will be successful, and they will cease to exist. Do you know why?” He looked to Conrad, but got the expected silence. “Because we are committed, fully, completely, and irrevocably to the fulfillment of our cause. Dedication. That’s what all great endeavors must have to succeed. And we have it in spades.”

“Of course, sir. Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you, that will be all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with us through the entire story! If you enjoyed this, follow our page so you can read all the new stories we're going to be writing in this AU - we already have two in the works! We'll see you again soon!


	21. From Spacious Skies to the Perilous Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America’s explosive appearance on the national stage sent ripples of shock throughout the world. As he grapples to find his place as the Personification of the United State of America, dark forces begin to stir once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sequel story has begun! If you like the preview here, go find the full first chapter in the series tag!

_ July 24, 2015 _

_ Washington, D.C. _

 

Weary blue eyes watched intently as the assembled Nations began to pack up their things to leave. Papers vanished into briefcases, phones were taken off silent, and ties were quickly being loosened.

The usual groups soon assembled.

Spain wandered over to a naggingly familiar looking South Italy, hands flying through the air as he began to chatter at the perpetually irate Nation.

The three NATO members of Scandinavia were clustered together near a window, Norway hovering and fussing over an embarrassed Iceland as Denmark cheerfully teased them both.

Near the far end of the table, France was perched, leaning over a glowering England. The Gallic nation made a small, abbreviated gesture towards the front of the table, head tilting. For a brief moment, earthy green eyes flicked forward, only to harden and turn away.

Alfred let out the small breath he’d been holding as England pointedly finished assembling his belongs and strode out, refusing to look at the conference host.

“He’ll come around,” a soft voice commented.

A small smile crossed his face. Turning, Alfred gave his brother a bright smile. “Oh, I’ll win him over eventually,” he vowed, “whether he likes it or not!”

Shaking his head, Canada returned the smile, and then looked out at the now nearly empty conference room.

“It went well,” he stated, voice quickly cheerful. “I’m not sure what the others would have said if your first time as host had ended the way so many of our meetings do – with complete chaos. It’s wonderful that you managed to avert that.” Canada dragged back the chair closest to America and dropped into with a relieved sigh.

“Hah.” Alfred snorted. “As much as it’s burning some of them up inside, they’re happy I’m here now.”

Canada blinked, a hint of America’s feelings of  _ amusement-irritation-exasperation _ flitting at the edge of his consciousness. “Problems?” he asked after a moment, a flicker of worry in his eyes. 

Alfred paused, startled at the sudden worry in his brother’s gaze. He focused inward for a moment, reaching for that strange spot between them, a place where North and South blurred together and  _ me  _ and  _ him _ became  _ us _ . A link, a connection they were only just starting to explore.

_ Worry-concern-I won’t let them hurt him! _

“It’s okay,” he finally said as the intensity of his brother’s care and concern washed over him. His Hollywood smile softened into something warmer. It was – nice – knowing that someone was watching out for him, that someone  _ cared _ enough to worry about his problems, both big and small. “It’s, like, 99 percent jealousy. I’ve gotten to have more of a personal life than a lot of those guys and it stings. Plus, they’re mad at me for not “doing my job” and they’re mad that no one ever came around to  _ tell _ me about my job and they’re mad that the first time I properly met another Nation I was kicking ass and taking names. Mostly, though,” his voice dropped slightly and a hint of smugness entered his voice, “they’re mad and scared that even though I haven’t been around to help, my people still managed to kick all their butts.”

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter of our first completed Hetalia Kinkmeme story! You can follow the link below to the full story or wait for updates here as the Mayhem21 writing team edits and cleans up the story.
> 
> For those of you not familiar with the Kinkmeme, stories there are posted anonymously in segments. While this makes the author-reader relationship a fun and unique experience, it does mean that it's not easily possible to edit a story segment. Over the next few months, errors, grammer, and confusing/poorly written elements are going to get a hearty polishing and the results will be posted here. We hope you enjoy!
> 
> Kinkmeme link: hetalia-kink. dreamwidth ? thread=513208539#cmt513208539


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